


The Bet (The One with the Las Vegas Wedding)

by Detochkina



Series: Mr & Mr Smith [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Epilepsy Warning, Fluff, Las Vegas, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Shotgun Wedding, Smut, Spies & Secret Agents, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2978594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Merlin Emrys is used to living life on the go. As an agent for the Agency of Magic, Merlin’s days are consumed by travel, exotic locations, and battling a faceless rival -- an officer from the competing Bureau of Corrections, who is always hot on his heels and ready to one-up him.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>When Merlin is sent on a mission to Las Vegas to secure a powerful artifact, he allows himself one night off. Just one, because he bloody deserves it. Drinks and foreplay lead to a bet with a hot financial advisor he just met. Merlin ends up as a newlywed. Oops.</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bet (The One with the Las Vegas Wedding)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Candymacaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/gifts).



> To say this was fun to write is an understatement. I got off on silliness of it too many times and now it's all yours. You're welcome.  
> You'll find tons of cultural/cinematic references here. If something doesn't add up, drop me a line, I'll explain or fix it (shit happens). Thank you for reading. Please note that some of the art is a flashing briefly animation, hence the epilepsy warning.
> 
> [Candy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/works), this story is for you. I can't thank you enough for all the encouragement, warm support, and wise advice you've given me for MANY MONTHS while I was writing this story. Your [brilliant art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902664) for this fic is out of this world amazing! Your talent has been truly inspirational to me. Thank you, thank you for not only drawing for me, but also for your kind and extremely insightful feedback as a pre-reader; you've been most, most helpful. I am so grateful to you for staying with me at odd hours, for coming to the rescue when I was stuck, and especially, ESPECIALLY for being so patient with me while waiting for this story to be written already. I'm sorry I failed to finish it for the ACBB 2014, like we meant to. Alas, here it is, 3,5 months late. And you're still talking to me. Miracles happen! :)  
> Please please go check [Candymacaron's fantastic art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902664) for this story (it will be posted as I post each installment of the series) and give her alllll the love! Thank you!  
> I want to thank [M](https://twitter.com/EditsandSnark) for being a consistent and invaluable force in my life, not only as a talented beta, but as an incredibly generous, patient friend. Thank you for looking at my scribbles over and over and over. I love you!  
> [Daroh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh/works), my darling, my sweet, you're awesome! Thank you for pre-reading, for flailing while doing so as it helped my confidence tremendously, and for asking very helpful questions. I'm lucky to have you! 
> 
> **Disclamer:** No infringement is intended. Characters are not mine. *crying*

 

Whoever decided having a global convention in Las Vegas in the middle of summer clearly has never been anywhere beyond the North Pole, which is where Merlin wishes he were as he walks out of the McCarron arrival terminal. The sliding door closes silently behind him and he's immediately slapped with an oppressive heat. His lungs, not appreciating a punishment of such measure, wither from the burning-hot air entering them. The running display on the terminal ahead tells him it’s 109°F, 33% humidity, and not a whisper of a breeze to promise to unprepared travelers. The asphalt is meltingly soft under his feet as he ducks into the first available taxi by the kerb, thankful for the air conditioner working in full blast inside.

“The Venetian, please,” he tells the cabbie, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. “How long is the ride?”

The cabbie shrugs. “About ten minutes without traffic. This time of the day will be more like twenty.”

Merlin nods. “Please go. I’m on a tight schedule.”

Cabbie hums. He fastens his seat belt and picks up a clipboard from the seat next to him. “Where you from, buddy?” he asks, marking something on the board. “UK, I take it?”

Merlin scowls; he has no time for small talk, but he can’t help the images of the last several weeks flipping through his mind. The mad and not entirely successful gallop across the world: Cairo, Istanbul, Athens, Mexico City, Quebec. And now Vegas. Sometimes he forgets where his home is.

“What gave me away?” he mutters, deep longing pinching his chest. He doesn’t miss his empty Chelsea flat in London, but he does miss his mum’s freshly baked scones. Given his busy life, God knows when he’ll taste them again. And he’d gladly give his left arm for cloudy skies and some rain right now.

The cabbie chuckles. “Only you Brits say schedule that sounds like “shed-ule.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we have more French influence than we’d like to admit,” Merlin says under his breath and glances at the digital clock on the dashboard. “Can we go?”   

“Sure thing.”

The cabbie puts the clipboard away, turns on the meter, and shifts the gear stick behind the steering wheel when someone opens the door and slides in.

“The Venetian,” the intruder orders, plopping on the seat next to Merlin. He drops his bag at his feet, showing no signs of being bothered that there’s another person already in the cab.

“Oi!” Merlin waves his hand. “The cab is taken, mate. Can’t you see? Catch the next one.”

The bloke turns to Merlin, gives him an appraisal with a tilt of his head, and smiles. “You’re going to the city, right?” His smile is gorgeous, and the bloke is obviously well aware of the charming effect it has on people. _Bastard._ But Merlin wasn’t born yesterday.

“Yeah, so?”

“So we’ll share a ride. Plenty of space here for both of us, and I’m in a hurry.” The bastard pats the side of the cabbie’s seat. “All sorted. Let’s go.”

The cabbie nods but hesitates.

Merlin makes an outraged noise. “No, it’s not sorted! I was here first and I don’t want to share. Now get out.” Merlin leans over the bloke (who smells rather nice for someone who, like Merlin, probably spent hours trapped on a plane in conditions not conducive to appearing this fresh) to open the door.

The charming smile disappears in a flash. “Look,” the bloke starts.

“Guys,” the cabbie interrupts. “I don’t need any trouble. Unless you're together, one of you has to leave.”

Merlin puffs out his cheeks and crosses his arms over his chest. “I'm not leaving." He says it as the bloke declares, "We are."

His squinting blue eyes are skating all over Merlin again, and he clarifies, "Practically together."

A decade ago, such pratishness would fluster Merlin into a flushing, sputtering mess; today, he presses his lips together and stares ahead in silence, refusing to play such a game. No one can push his buttons.

“The Venetian, then,” the cabbie says, and both passengers nod a confirmation and look at each other. Yes, what are the odds?

When the cab finally takes off, the bloke coughs into his hand, and offers, “Consider the benefit, though -- we can split the fare.”

Merlin, who's already relaxed a little, narrows his eyes. “I don’t think so. You’re paying. All of it. For my trouble.”

The bloke’s brows arch. “Your trouble? What, you’re too eager to blow all your family’s savings on the fruit machines?”

Merlin gives the bloke a measuring look. He notes the short bowl-cut of his blond hair, his obnoxious Tommy Bahama aloha shirt, the tanned, golden skin above the collar, his khaki cargo shorts and sandals over white socks. There’s no way someone wearing _socks_ with their sandals has any right to take the piss out of other people. The watch on the bloke’s wrist, though… Platinum, water resistant, with a 24-hour dial, multiple time zones, and moon phases. Patek Philippe. Very expensive, if Merlin knows anything about Patek watches. And he does -- his childhood friend Gilli's father is a clockmaker, and Merlin grew up in his shop.

The time zones on the bloke’s watch are all over the place, with the main clock being three hours ahead. Eastern Time.

Merlin yawns.

“I’m very sorry you’re late for your no doubt very important convention of tax accountants and smart arses,” he says nonchalantly. “I’m sure it’s a posh affair and a hoot.”

The bloke looks wounded. “I’m a financial advisor, if you care to know.”

Merlin dramatically stifles another yawn. “A _glorified_ accountant, then. And no, I don't care.”

The bloke coughs into his hand again and makes another attempt to say something, to which Merlin gives him a look full of disdain and asks the cabbie, “How much longer?”

The cabbie glances at them in the rear-view mirror, mirth crinkling his eyes, and shakes his head. “Not far now.”

The Venetian is gorgeous, and if Merlin had the luxury to admire the art of the resort’s design or to even stay longer than a day, he’d probably pause and comment on the grandeur and arresting beauty of the tower that can hardly be considered just a hotel. Visiting here is an experience, and it’s too bad Merlin has no time or another soul to share it with. He mollifies himself with the thought that it’s a replica anyway, and he’s already seen the original, having been to Venice before and such, even if just a for a short stop. Honestly, all he remembers is the stench of stale water in the canals, made worse by the fact that the garbage men were on strike, which apparently is a common occurrence in Italy.

He makes a point of nodding to the cabbie when they stop by the main entrance of the hotel; the valet boy’s quick to step in to open the cab’s door and greet them. They’re immediately blocked by another car that’s already stopped next to them, and he has no choice but to wait for the Tommy Bahama bloke to pay the driver and leave the car first. Merlin feels only slightly uncomfortable about the whole situation, but he said he wouldn’t pay, so it’s not his problem anymore. And he’d rather the bloke quit stalling, which is exactly what’s happening as the guy reaches for his wallet and freezes with a frown on his face.

“What’s the matter?” Merlin asks, sighing. “Don’t tell me you’re short on cash.”

The bloke sighs. “Would you take British pounds? I haven’t any American money.” He digs through his wallet. “Pesos?” he offers.

Merlin snorts and the cabbie shakes his head. “Sorry, sir. But we do accept all major credit cards,” he suggests.

The valet catches on right away. The smile slides off his face and he closes the door, the locks clicking shut. And now they’re trapped.

Splendid.

Merlin doesn’t fancy this situation one bit. He turns his entire body to face the visibly flustered bloke. “Yeah. How about that credit card? Come on, shaky shake.” He waves at the bloke’s wallet.

The bloke purses his lips. “I don’t carry any credit cards.”

Somehow, Merlin isn’t surprised. “What’s wrong? Financial analyst has trouble securing credit?”

“I just don’t believe in that particular practice,” the bloke snipes.

“You don’t believe in banks?” Merlin keeps pressing, leaning yet closer. "Oh, that's rich." He snorts at his own joke. "Get it? You. Rich. Ha!"

The cabbie picks up his radio.

“No,” the bloke says, “I don’t believe in credit card practises. Specifically in the US. The aggressive marketing by financial institutions only breeds abusive credit usage by often unaware, if not spoiled, American credit-card holders. Which, in turn, breeds a host of fees and punitive charges that only exacerbates the problems for consumers who’ve already hit hard times.”

Merlin rolls his eyes at the surprisingly passionate speech, and what, this guy actually cares more about random people rather than pushing banks’ agenda? That’s… well. Good.

“We accept debit,” pipes in the cabbie, and presses the button on his radio. “Station, this is fifty thirty-one.” He turns to his passengers. “Look, I just need to get paid and pick up my next ride. Before I escalate this to my office and call the cops, can you maybe find the solution between yourselves?” He looks at the blond bloke. “I’m sure your fellow Brit here would get you out of this pickle if you ask nicely. Especially since you're practically together.”

Merlin huffs, the glamour of the bloke’s nobility is all but gone at those words. He doesn’t even look at his supposedly “fellow Brit” as he pulls some cash out of his left back pocket (American dollars always go into the left back pocket, folded neatly in twenties and fives, because he’s always prepared, unlike some financial advisors who are just conniving gits that don’t even believe in their own bleeding financial institutions). The fare meter shows $22.75. Merlin hands the cabbie thirty. “Keep the change. Sorry about this trouble.”

The doors are unlocked instantly, as if by magic.

The bloke tries to say something, but Merlin doesn’t need his apology or his thanks.

“Just bloody move out of the away.”

The bloke tries to say something again.

“Oh, for crying out--” Merlin opens the door on the other side, not caring he’s stepping in front of another moving car. He gets yelled at. Mumbles an apology. And what the bloody fuck, how did this situation get out of control, like he’s the one in the wrong here?

And this bleeding heat…

He has to wait for their cab to leave before he can make it safely to the kerb.

By the time he reaches the check-in desk (which means a long walk through the casino, of course), the only available receptionist is occupied, chatting with no one else but Mr Socks-in-Sandals, who turns to Merlin with a toothy, “Cheers!”

“You’re a bloody _prat_ ,” Merlin says with feeling, and the bloke laughs, spreading his hands. The laugh is hearty and somehow intimate, just for Merlin, and for some reason it makes Merlin less angry and more amused. He's still irritated with the dorky, cocky bastard, but who knew accountants can be as quirky as they are annoying?

“All set, Mr Smith,” the receptionist chatters on, smiling while pretending she hasn’t heard anything. She’s trained well. “Here’s your key. Your suite is on the 18th floor, close to the elevators, per your request. Room number 1856.”

Merlin smirks to himself. 1856. Good to know. There just might be a breakout of a mysterious case of diarrhea, isolated to one particular Mr Smith in room 1856. Just might be.

Merlin checks the clock and shakes his head. He’s running late for his other check-in.

“How may I help you?” the receptionist asks, turning to Merlin.

The sandals bloke lingers by the lifts, clearly eavesdropping, and Merlin decides this can wait.

He pretends to take a call and smiles at the receptionist apologetically, pointing at his mobile. She smiles back, waving that she understands. Merlin veers off and walks back towards the casino. Maybe he won’t even need a room today.

Once he walks past all the slot machines and craps tables, tuning out the melodic sounds of coins dropping and croupiers announcing the bets, he turns towards the restrooms, where he stops and makes a real call.

“Wizard,” he hears as a greeting and grunts his own. “Please check your messages,” the voice says. "All necessary information, along with the instructions, has being just sent to you. Confirm when you're ready. Your team’s standing by.”

Merlin grunts his assent and hangs up.

 

Merlin is rubbish at many, many things in life with two exceptions: magic and computers.

He couldn't fry an egg without practically burning his flat down. He couldn't walk down the street without finding a hidden pothole and twisting his ankle. And he couldn’t get a decent shag in months because romancing seemed hard and confusing and when he finally figured out his preferences, his career took off and his life became all work and very little play.

But Merlin never despaired. There’s a reason why man invented takeaway, yoga, and jacking off. So now there are more things on the list of what he's good at, although they don't all come to him as naturally and require daily practise.

Magic is easy because it's a part of him, like breathing. He rarely has to worry about losing control of it. The only times he has to watch it is when he's on the job that specifically requires for him to be discreet. And in his occupation, if he can’t use magic, he must maintain the utmost focus. That's when yoga, controlled breathing, and measured steps become not just convenient traits, but survival skills, so over the years of being employed by the Agency of Magic, he’s learned to be precise and sharp in everything he does.

While magic is the main reason Merlin is a part of the Agency, it’s not the only reason. What makes him an absolutely invaluable asset is that he’s also a computer geek. Where a single computer error stumbles and stupefies his co-workers, Merlin manages to find a resolution without much effort. Yes, it’s different from magic, yet it’s easy all the same. To him, it’s all just ones and zeros -- no mystery behind it -- and there’s always a logical explanation to a problem. He isn’t trying to be a prick about it -- it’s just the truth.

Magic and technology might not have much in common, but Merlin doesn’t see why they can’t go hand in hand. They should, and he often makes it so, because he truly is a wizard at what he does. It’s taken a lot of work and maturing, but at thirty-one, Merlin’s finally at the point in his life where he’s comfortable with who he is and isn’t trying to be too modest about it. Modesty is a waste of time.

 

~LV~

 

Merlin locks himself in one of the stalls in the lobby loo and taps his mobile -- the device he’s modified beyond recognition, stuffing it with so many features, even James Bond would be envious of it. 

The information sent to him by the Agency is compact in size and vast in content. Merlin skims through the file on Julius Borden, looking for any new details since he’s already familiar with the mark: 42 years old, Welsh, single. Borden is an avid collector of relics and artifacts. Has a degree in Paleohistory. Possesses no magic. And the man’s not to be trusted. He was caught a year ago trying to buy an artifact called “Mary Collins’s necklace”, which had been stolen from a museum in Cardiff. With the right spell, the necklace reportedly could perform teleportations, glamour, and sleeping enchantments powerful enough to knock out a room full of people, but Borden wasn’t supposed to know that. To the world, it was just a beautiful piece of antique jewelry donated to a museum by some affluent Welsh family.

Of course, Borden never admitted knowing about its magical qualities and claimed to be interested in the necklace strictly as a historian and a collector. No one believed him, but he had no priors and there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him with criminal intent. They never learned the real motivation behind the failed transaction, and just to be on the safe side, the necklace joined the secure archives of the Agency of Magic instead of going back to the museum. Because of scoundrels like Borden, there were less and less magical relics out in the world representing the world’s ancient -- at times dark, but always fascinating -- history of magic, and more and more greedy opportunists looking for nothing but personal gain.

Merlin’s eyes catch an important piece of information in the file, and he stifles the sound of delight in his throat. According to the Agency, Borden recently came into possession of an artifact of unmeasurable value. It’s known as the “Triskelion key” -- an elusive piece Merlin’s heard a lot about since the day he joined the Agency. The only visual representation of the Triskelion available in the archives is a faded drawing. No one could tell what it was designed to open exactly, and many believed the key to be nothing but a myth. Merlin wasn’t swayed, and at this point, recovering it has become something of a personal obsession.

Reading the report in front of him, Merlin starts to grin. Finally, finally there’s something tangible on the artifact, and there’s no one better than him to complete this mission. If the Agency’s intelligence is right about Borden having the Triskelion, and if he plays his cards right today, he has a real chance to see it in person.

He just has to be there first.

 

~LV~

 

Sitting locked in the loo, Merlin doesn’t use magic to glamour himself, since it doesn’t seem necessary. He just makes occasional grunting noises and periodically flushes the toilet. Keeping half an ear on the movements outside, Merlin taps the next file, opening the blueprints of the hotel. With a pinch of his fingers, he expands a glowing blue holographic image of the hotel tower and the adjacent buildings, letting the image grow as tall as the height of the stall door allows him without revealing himself. 36 stories, 475 feet of sheer beauty, featuring architectural replicas of various Venetian landmarks: Palazzo Ducale, Piazza San Marco, St. Mark’s Campanile, the Rialto Bridge. The Sands Expo convention center. Las Vegas Sands Corporation headquarters, located on the top of the tower.

Merlin concentrates on the last two.

The convention center is where he knows he’ll find Borden this afternoon, proudly presenting his collection of relics. The Triskelion isn’t on the list of the exhibits, but there’s a meeting Borden is scheduled for in the tower this evening, which can only mean one thing.

Borden is as vain as he is greedy, and someone must’ve named the right price to satisfy both, so it’s possible the artifact will change hands tonight. If that’s the case, Merlin must intercept it.

He opens the chat program on the device, the window popping up in the air next to the tower, and starts typing for his team member Elena.

 **Wizard:** Report current status.

 **Pixie:** Hey, M. Borden’s sitting in on the panel right now. Location -- first floor of the convention center, east wing. It’s a small conference; the panel is by private invitation only.

 **Wizard:** Security?

 **Pixie:** 2 guards at the door to the auditorium checking the invitations and scanning attendees. There are 2 more guards inside, on the floor at the podium. They wouldn’t pump up security for no reason. Borden came with a briefcase, assume the artifact’s there.

 **Wizard:** Got it. Anything else?

 **Pixie:** Security is courtesy of Alvarr Tahl, a VP of the parent corporation that owns The Venetian.

 **Wizard:** And he’s the one Borden’s meeting with later.

 **Pixie:** Affirmative. He’s meeting with Alvarr and his assistant Enmyria Wichy, who incidentally also has power of attorney.

 **Wizard:** Yes, convenient if you’re planning an expensive transaction. Please confirm the time and location of their meeting.

 **Pixie:** Conference room “Lamia” reserved on the 36th floor at 1830 local time.

 **Wizard:** Got it.

 **Pixie:** Good luck, M. If anyone can do it, it’s you. Don’t let that mischievous bastard cross you this time!

 **Wizard:** I won’t! Over.

Merlin flips through the floor plans on holographic display, with the flick of a finger discarding every unnecessary piece until he’s calculated Borden’s most probable route, and Merlin plans to be right there. Given the presence of security, the amount of people attending the convention, intercepting Borden during the convention without drawing attention might be challenging.

Merlin closes his eyes and carefully pushes his magic out. Visualising the location and the space surrounding it, he lets his magic sheath the room Borden’s currently in without touching anything. He’s just getting a feel of it, of what’s inside, and he can sense it -- a source of some unknown power -- vibrating steadily, warm. It emanates the sort of energy Merlin has never felt before; it’s something he cannot name but itches to touch. It doesn’t feel threatening, but just the vibe of it is telling him something is happening with it, and he knows right there, it’s not some random relic. In his gut, he’s sure it must be the Triskelion.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin considers all his retrieval options.

Option A: he can make his move in the lift. The guards will most likely accompany Borden on the way up to the 36th floor. He can deal with four knuckleheads if need be, no problem. They might not let him in the lift of course, but it’s still a viable option.

Merlin consults with the hologram. The security cameras installed throughout the entire property might cause some pain. He switches to the chat window again.

 **Wizard:** E, show me the security plans of the building.

 **Pixie:** Retrieving.

The blue lines of the hologram flicker and multiple red dots start blinking on the screen. Merlin adds Gwaine to the conversation.

 **Wizard:**  G, is their security system _Nemeton 6-5_?

 **ThemApples:** Yes. I reckon you’re rather familiar with it.

Merlin is, considering he’s the one who created a prototype for it when he was still a uni student and how the Agency took notice of him. The system went commercial two years later, and while it didn’t make him rich, it certainly helped him graduate student loan-free.

 **Wizard:** So I am. Get me the schematics from here... to here.

Merlin draws on the screen with his finger, indicating the path from the Sands Expo building to the tower’s elevators and up to the 36th floor. He circles the entire 36th floor.

The numbers appear and float next to each red dot. Merlin assesses the information.

 **Wizard:** G, I want you to record 15 minutes of footage for the following camera numbers, just in case…

Merlin types down the numbers for each location.

 **ThemApples:** u o me, M.

Merlin sighs.

 **Wizard:** Do your job, G.

 **ThemApples:** Wud it hurt you to say pls  & tnx, daisy?

 **Wizard:** Muck this up and you can forget your L’Oreal shampoo commercial dream.

 **ThemApples:** Y?

 **Wizard:** Because you’ll be missing your bloody head!

 **ThemApples:** U no fun, M. I don’t fancy u anymore :(

Someone coughs outside and Merlin freezes. The water starts running in the sink, and the hand dryer comes to life. Merlin’s skin prickles. He can’t tell whether he’s just too tense and therefore overly sensitive, or there’s actually someone who poses threat; either way he’s not going to take any chances, so he folds all his visual aids and shuts his phone. The prickling feeling’s gone too quickly for Merlin to be sure of anything. The hand dryer stops and it gets very quiet for a long moment, until he hears the door creak and then click shut. He waits for another minute and slowly opens the door of his stall. The restroom is empty.

He quickly types on his phone: _Have to go. G, do what you’re told n report back._

 _-Affirmative, Grumpy Pants,_ comes Gwaine’s reply a moment later, and Merlin rolls his eyes.

Some of his teammates are bloody impossible (impossibly unprofessional, that is) and it’s a wonder how they’re even employed. Still, Merlin trusts Gwaine like no one else to do the job well.

All in all, this particular plan has a 52% chance of success. Not bad, but he can do better. Merlin considers his other options.

Option B: to interrupt Borden’s meeting. This might not be a terrible idea, even though he still would have to deal with guards and surveillance. But that way, Merlin doesn’t have to risk his exposure for nothing. He’d make sure Borden indeed has the Triskelion.

Walking out of the restroom, Merlin checks the mission’s detail again. The clearance he’s given this time allows him to use magic at his discretion and this might be his only way to recover the artifact. After a quick calculation, it looks like the probability of success for this option is close to 74%.

Option C is the least desirable and has a chance of a favourable outcome at around 27%. This is if he can’t retrieve the Triskelion on the spot and has to wait until it’s exchanged owners and found its new home. It’s a whole new game Merlin has to consider, and he’d rather not. Air-tight vaults (the casino’s vault beneath everyone’s feet is where Merlin suspects the artifact would most likely end up if this transaction goes through) are not what Merlin worries about; with magic and special devices, he can get into any vault, given time. But that’s the thing: _time_ is what he doesn’t want to spare, since he knows well that right now someone else is hot on his heels, going after the artifact as well. Time has never been on his side.

 

~LV~

 

The first time Merlin was double-crossed, the mission was so simple, Merlin wondered why he was even assigned the job. All he had to do was show up in Bangkok and retrieve from the local contact an artifact -- a coin of Necromancy -- and go back home. Easy.

Bangkok met him with a bustle of crowd activity, chaotic and confusing traffic, exotic temples, and saffron-wrapped monks making their daily rounds.

He arrived at the street-corner eatery, the air smelling of things rich and spicy inside, sat down at the sticky table by the window and waited.

And waited.

The agreed meeting time came and went, and just when Merlin was ready to report to the Agency that he’d been stood up, a boy, who was not older than seven or eight, came up to his seat.

Without a word, he dropped a coin between Merlin’s hands and was going to make a run for it, but Merlin caught him by his arm.

“Where’s Sirichai?” he demanded.

The boy’s eyes widened and he shook his head.

“Where did you get this?” Merlin asked, holding up the coin. One glance at it, and Merlin knew it wasn’t what he’d come for. “Who gave this to you?” he insisted, shaking the boy by his arm. “Speak!”

The boy started talking fast, his voice panicked. Merlin had understood maybe two words: “man” and “you”.

“Say it again,” Merlin said. “Slower.”

An older man with a big belly and in an apron that had been white maybe ten years ago, came out of the divider that was painted with yellow dragons and asked the boy a question Merlin didn’t understand, again. The boy answered, gesticulating with his free hand and pointed at Merlin.

The man noded. “He said you’re late. Keep the change,” he conveyed to Merlin in a heavy accent and disappeared behind the divider again.

Merlin let the boy go and inspected the coin. It was a £2 of British Indian Ocean Territory money -- shiny and mint -- with the Queen’s profile on one side, and two turtles, bearing a shield with a crown on top, on the other. What the bloody hell?

At the airport, Merlin called the agency and asked to be patched through to Gaius, his mentor and boss.

"Gaius, I didn't recover the coin," he said, skipping formalities. "Something went wrong. I didn't meet my contact, someone else did."

"Do you know who it was?" Gaius asked.

"No clue." Merlin flipped the souvenir left for him between his fingers. "Sirichai isn't responding to me and I don't like it. Gods know where the coin is by now. What are the odds it'll end up in the private collection of someone with no idea of its power?"

"Yes, I very much doubt that," Gaius murmured, doing nothing to assuage Merlin’s concerns.

"Gaius, do you know something I don't?"

Gaius stayed quiet for a moment. "I won't lie to you, my boy, I expected a problem this time. Why do you think I sent you of all agents on this mission?"

"You tell me." Merlin glances around and moves to the less-crowded spot by the gate.

"The Bureau has been awfully active lately."

"So I’ve heard."

"Yes. They've added more officers, increased their budget on the equipment, added more routine training."

Merlin snorted. "What else can they do? No sane person with magic would want to work for them."

"Yes, yes..." Gaius trailed off.

"So you think it's the Bureau's doing? They got their hands on the coin?"

"Sirichai wouldn’t cross us just to please some private collector. There’s someone more serious involved. And you know what that means?" Gaius asked.

"Yes, I do," Merlin said grimly. A failed mission always stung more when the Bureau was involved. "If it's the Bureau's doing, the coin will most likely be destroyed."

"I’m afraid so. According to their new policy. They’ve become belligerent ever since that disastrous archive break-in six months ago. They don’t believe it’s safe to keep the artifacts anymore."

"When will we know for sure?" Merlin asked.

"Probably within a week."

Merlin knows that every instance of retrieval of magical artifact must be reported by both sides now, and the Agency can appeal the extermination, but it must be for a good reason.

“They’ll inform us once it’s destroyed. It's the law now,” Gaius added.

"Yes, instead of having the law preventing magic going instinct, they punish us," Merlin ground out. "I can’t stand what this does to us and ours, Gaius."

"I know. We fought against it and didn’t win, but we’ll keep fighting. And until it's changed, you have to try harder and be faster, Merlin. Next time. Every time."

"I will, Gaius," Merlin swore. "I will."

It was only when Merlin settled on his flight back home that the meaning of what had happened fully dawned on him. He retrieved the coin from his breast pocket and studied it again.

_The turtles._

The message.

_You’re late. Keep the change._

Someone, most likely at the Bureau, knew of the mission and not only got there first, but also wanted to rub it in the Agency's face. That was cocky and rude.

Turned out, it was only the beginning.

 

The Bureau took responsibility for the taken coin of Necromancy, just like Gaius said, a week later...

 

~LV~

 

In hindsight, Merlin should’ve predicted it.

When you’re good at something -- no, when you’re _amazing_ at something -- there’s always going to be someone who wants to best you. And that was all right, Merlin didn’t mind a healthy competition. Except, this was a lot more than just that.

The Bureau’s purpose was in keeping society from being negatively influenced by magic or magic users and enforcing all rules necessary to prevent any magic threat. That made sense to some extent, but lately, it had started to turn into unnecessary policing and harsh treatment of all things even suspected to be magical, which became a real problem for the magic community and created more work for the Agency, busy trying to preserve magic.

What was ironic was that the organisations were run by two people who were rumoured to be related. A common belief was that Morgana LeFay, a head of the Agency, was related to the Bureau’s Chief Officer, Uther Pendragon. Some said she was his daughter; some claimed she was his niece. And some, especially nosy, insisted the two were secretly having a torrid love affair. Why torrid, no one could explain, probably because it sounded more dramatic that way.

Merlin knew one thing: if there ever was any love between Morgana and Uther, it was long since lost, replaced by a relentless competition. Both fought against magic being used on the black market, but for different reasons -- the Agency considered it a waste of already dwindling magic resources, while the Bureau considered magic users a waste and wanted magic on a tight leash, if not gone. Agents and officers were specially trained for their tasks on each side, no expenses spared on missions. 

So, it shouldn’t have been a big surprise to Merlin when one day, he, the most decorated agent of magic, finally met a rival who matched him in fervor and skill. It was upsetting, sure, but a truly devastating blow to Merlin’s pride came when he realised that his nemesis, who’d come out of nowhere and started beating Merlin at his own tricks, didn’t even have magic.

 

~LV~

 

The next time Merlin’s rival snatched an artifact, it was almost in front of Merlin’s nose. When Merlin arrived at an empty grotto in the south of Tuscany, the artifact was gone and he could swear he smelled a hint of some fragrance still lingering in the air. He found several dark, wet spots on the stone in one corner that suspiciously looked like blood. Someone was in a hurry and hurt themselves, and when he looked up, a coin with turtles blinked at him, suspended on a thin thread from the ceiling. How even?

“Oh, you _bastard_ ,” Merlin whispered, pulling it off the string. He was angry. He was exasperated, and he was intrigued.

Whoever this person was, they were fast enough to beat the Agency’s best, and they were audacious enough to taunt the Agency for it. As much as Merlin loathed to fail, as much as he hated to lose another magic artifact, he couldn’t deny he was impressed by his nemesis’ skill. It was clever, it was daring, and, if Merlin cared to admit it, a little bit sexy -- in the way someone wasn't afraid to push their limits.  

 

~LV~

 

There are countless ways for Merlin to grab the artifact, if that were his only mission, but it’s not. He’s an agent, not a thief. There are rules, there’s a code of conduct, and even in extreme circumstances, he’s still accountable for his actions. Merlin can’t attack someone without being attacked first. Merlin can’t resort to unnecessary violence. And Merlin can never, ever do something that might pose a threat to the public. Essentially, his hands are tied, hence multiple plans and intense preparation.

Obviously, people like Julius Borden know the risks they put themselves in by dealing magical artifacts on a black market, and so do Alvarr’s people, who are trained to react to unpleasant and sometimes hostile situations accordingly -- it's their job. Still, while Merlin may trick them, he doesn’t have a free-for-all pass, and neither does he want one.

Walking among the large crowd that just spilled out into the Convention Center's hallways at the end of the day, Merlin knows this is what Borden and Alvarr are counting on. It’s easy to get lost in the sea of people, and not only that -- the Agency (or the Bureau, for that matter) wouldn’t do anything to ruin a big event or to put people in any kind of danger.

Keeping his eyes on Borden’s back, moving between four guards through the hall, he follows them along with the crowd. He also scans the surroundings for anything suspicious, without having an idea who exactly he’s looking for. For all he knows, his rival from the Bureau could be walking next to him. It could be the guy who just bumped into his back with a, “Move it, dude.” Or that lady in a dark pinstripe suit on his right, looking at him as if sizing him up for her night out. Merlin smiles in return. Because he’s raised to be polite, and not because he’s considering the open invitation in her eyes. 

The crowd thickens when more people join them, having finished the panels for the day. It’s so packed now, everyone slows down, to Merlin’s annoyance. He cranes his neck, trying to find Borden -- blocked now from his view -- without success.

They barely make it twenty feet when a murmur and a wave of movement ripples through the crowd, knocking Merlin and the people next to him back by the force of it, until he’s nearly lost his balance.

"Hey!" a few people yell at the same time. "What’s going on?"

"Some guy fainted!" someone ahead answers. "Fucking conventions. Every year’s like this."

Merlin mutters a curse and starts pushing through the crowd. "Excuse me, excuse me, coming through."

"We're all coming through, man," a bloke on his left snaps, but Merlin doesn't pay attention to that noise and keeps moving.

Just in case, he cants a quick spell to make himself appear indistinguishable in the way that makes him unnoticeable, even for those who look at him directly. He’s there, but he doesn’t register on people’s radars. No one would ever remember seeing him or be able to describe his features. It's an old but useful trick.

By the time he's made it to the lifts, the crowd is thinner, but there's no sign of Borden. Merlin closes his eyes, letting his magic out, and mutes the commotion around him. He’s looking for the source of magic that he felt the presence of earlier, and soon finds it coming from somewhere ahead, still on the same level.

So, Borden didn't take the lifts.

Having seen blueprints earlier, Merlin pulls the image of the location to the best of his memory and in his mind's eye, lays it over his stretched-in-every-direction magic to pinpoint the whereabouts of the artifact. He finds it thrumming, moving, at the very edge of the East wing of the building, a place different from anything Merlin’s predicted, and just like that, the chances for success for his Option A go down from 52% to 0%.

“Shite,” Merlin mutters and glances at his mobile. Time to recalculate. He checks the clock, noting it’s been over thirty minutes since he last spoke with his team, and inserts an earpiece, tapping on it to activate.

"Change of plans," he starts talking quietly. “The mark didn't use the lifts. I lost visual, but they're still in the building.” He doesn’t stop his careful survey of the people around while keeping his magic's grip on the perimeter and following the beaconing "voice" of the artifact. He quickly turns the corner and finally catches sight of Borden, surrounded by guards and walking briskly down the hallway.

"Got a visual. Looks like they’re moving to the parking garage,” Merlin mutters and speeds up a little, trying to get a bit closer.

 _T minus 15 before the meeting._ Elena’s voice is clear and calm in his ear. _What do you want to do?_

“G, alternative routes to the tower?” Merlin asks.

 _Looking,_ responds Gwaine, sounding just as clear, a second later _._

Merlin isn’t one to start acting rash at the first sign of trouble, but the steady force of magic coming from the briefcase now clasped in Borden’s hand makes Merlin twitchy. Even if it’s not the Triskelion there, he can’t let Borden sell an artifact of _that_ power to another party, and that’s if they’re lucky and the Bureau’s finest doesn’t intercept. Merlin looks around again, searching faces. They could be here; he could be looking at his rival right now.

 _But the garage is away from the tower,_ Gwaine responds. _What about the meeting?_

“That meeting could’ve been just a ruse,” Merlin says.

_Possibly. Or someone spooked them._

“Not me,” Merlin says with confidence and reminds,“Routes?”

_I see another lift. Hang on, M._

“You have 15 seconds.”

Although Merlin’s sure he’s not drawing any attention, something still doesn’t feel right. Alvarr Tahl is not the man Borden would want to mess with or skip a meeting with, unless…

Unless Alvarr Tahl has other plans, too. Like joining Borden on the way to wherever Borden is going.

Merlin watches as the man he recognises immediately from the mission files approaches the group from the opposite side of the hall. Two guards make a space for him to join Borden, who exclaims a greeting, looking a bit perturbed. Alvarr murmurs something, smiling, and they exchange a quick handshake.

“Well, what do you know? Alvarr is here,” Merlin mutters. “Borden seems surprised. G, update.”

 _Yes, there is another route,_ Gwaine reports. _First,_ _they have to take the stairs_ _from the car park to the passage on the second floor above the casino. Then walk to the private lifts, but you’ll need the access key to get in._

“Won’t be a problem,” Merlin says. “I’ll need transport. For backup.”

 _Already arranging,_ Gwaine says. _Elena's on it._

Merlin smiles. “Good girl.”

 _And all I get is threats,_ Gwaine grumbles.

“Focus,” Merlin snaps, seeing as Borden, Alvarr, and the guards disappear around the corner at the end of the hallway. There are only a few people left who are going in the same direction. “What’s the security situation like on the stairs?”

 _You’re not going to believe it,_ Gwaine says in a moment. _Two cameras, one downstairs and one upstairs, but neither is online. I don’t like it, M._

“I don’t either, and probably not for the same reason.”

 _What are you thinking?_ Elena asks.

“I don’t discount the possibility of it being a set-up. The question is who’s behind it. And if it’s not Borden or Alvarr being clever, there’s only one other possibility…” Merlin trails off.

 _The Bureau…_ Gwaine and Elena say at the same time.

“Exactly. And if the Bureau is planning to intercept Borden on the staircase…”

 _Go, M. Go go go!_ Elena urges.

Merlin hastens his steps to turn around the corner. The hallway is empty, but the only way out is through the sliding glass doors ahead, and he catches a glimpse of Borden’s group before they’re gone from view. Merlin rushes outside.

He's isn’t a big fan of car chases -- too many options to calculate in a short span of time and too dangerous to target magic on the go -- so it’s with relief he notes that the group is heading towards the door to the stairs, rather than to the parked vehicles, and one of the guards speeds ahead to open the door and check inside.

"Clear," he says quietly, and goes in first. Then goes the second guard, followed by Borden and Alvarr.

“Something tells me we might lose connection once I go there,” Merlin predicts.

 _What are you planning, M?_ Gwaine asks.

“Occam’s razor,” Merlin murmurs, turning his options in his head. “Simplicity equals perfection.”

There’s a short silence and then Elena says, _Be careful, M. Please._

“I always am,” he replies, hurrying again to catch up.

The guard closing the procession glances back, his eyes skipping over Merlin like he isn't there, and Merlin smiles. _That’s right, I don’t exist._ He counts on the power of the spell to keep him so unremarkable, they shouldn't remember him after the confrontation, even if the real Merlin stares them in the face. The bloke frowns briefly and shakes his head before stepping through the open door and letting it close behind him. As a precaution, Merlin mutters a spell to stop it from closing all the way -- he doesn’t want to be locked out before he gets in, which is a possibility. He’s there in a few strides.

“Here it comes,” he says under his breath.

He has to duck and almost drop to the ground as soon as he’s in. Not unexpected. Merlin casts a shielding spell to stop the guard throwing punches at him, every single one blocked. It only takes a few words to knock him out, next -- Merlin seals the exit door upstairs to the second floor. The second guard doesn’t even get a chance to come close; Merlin binds him with magic and sits him down on the stairs; the guard isn’t going anywhere.

Merlin looks up one flight of stairs. While one guard keeps tapping his earpiece with a frustrated grimace, the other is struggling to open the door.

“I don’t think it’s going to happen,” he says, smiling, and walks to the railing. The staircase is lit well enough for him to assess the situation: the guards are grappling for control. Alvarr standing aside, his hands crossed on his large gut -- a picture of ease and calm. And Borden next to him, pacing.

“What do you want?” Borden yells, leaning down over the railing. “Who are you?”

“The Agency sent me,” Merlin says smoothly. “To confiscate what’s not yours.”

“I don’t have anything!”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” Merlin looks pointedly at the briefcase in Borden’s hand. “You do, and it’s considered a national treasure, which means it cannot be acquired privately. Turn it in, Borden.”

The guards stop what they’re doing and reach under their jackets in unison. Alvarr raises his hand to stop them.

“That’s between Mr Borden and the Agency.”

Borden scowls. “Too late, Alvarr, you’re already in it.”

Alvar narrows his eyes, studying Merlin. “Like I said,” he says slowly. “I don’t want any trouble. Agent, whatever beef you have with this gentleman, I’d like to stay out of it.”

“You,” Borden hisses, advancing on Alvarr, and the guards appear in front of him like monoliths.

“Borden,” Merlin calls. This has been going on for long enough. “Come down and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Borden spews a few profanities, met by complete silence from every other party, and, seeing he has no choice, stomps down the stairs to Merlin.

“Slowly, Borden,” Merlin says, sending a warning glance to Alvarr and the guards. Alvarr pointedly holds his hands up, still keeping a pleasant smile. “Open your briefcase,” Merlin orders.

“Maybe I can persuade you --” Borden cajoles, leaning in and pressing his fingers against Merlin’s wrist. The gesture is a quick jab, lasting no more than a couple of second, but it leaves uncomfortably prickling impression on his skin.

Merlin sneers, quickly pulling back. “Keep your hands off me.”

Borden backs out, muttering a curse. “Fine!” He pauses as if expecting Merlin to change his mind, then turns the briefcase to face Merlin, and finally flips the clasp.

Merlin leans forward. The wave of magic splashing оut as soon as he opens the lid is so overwhelming, Merlin blinks and takes a step back. He gathers himself quickly, heart beating fast in his chest, and looks at what’s inside.

The Triskelion. There’s no doubt.

“Give it to me,” Merlin demands in a suddenly hoarse voice, and he has to clear his throat. Even his eyes feel a little watery. He did not expect to be affected by the artifact in such a profound way. “Don’t even think about it,” he adds quickly, seeing that Borden jerks in an attempt to argue. He has to clear his throat again, still feeling a little weird. Not weak, just… off balance.

Borden smirks, closing the lid, and Merlin wipes that smirk off his smug face with a slight push of magic that sends Borden stumbling and almost losing his balance.

“Easy,” Merlin coos, ready to catch him.

Borden collects himself and glares up at Alvarr. “You’re letting this happen? We had an agreement!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alvarr says, his expression all business and denial, not a sign of disappointment or displeasure on his face. “You’re a guest of the hotel as a speaker at the conference. Your credentials would check out, should I choose to verify. Or should I believe otherwise?”

Reddened in the face, Borden shoves the briefcase into Merlin’s hands. “Here! I’ve only hunted it for a decade!”

Merlin accepts the briefcase with a slight bow. “And we appreciate the discovery.”

“You,” Borden spits out. “What do you know about appreciation? You’re nothing but an obedient monkey.”

He’s shaking, hair falling in his eyes, which are burning with rage. It fades quickly under Merlin’s calm stare.

Merlin shrugs. “It depends on how you look at it, Mr Borden. I may be the only one abiding the law here, but I’m not the one dancing like a monkey right now.”

“Fuck you,” Borden says, but there’s no bite in it anymore.

“Pleasure is all mine,” Merlin agrees. He salutes Alvarr, lifts the spell off the door behind him and quickly backs out, placing the locking spell back once in the garage again, leaving the rest of the group trapped on the staircase. It will last for a while, and with no working cameras and poor reception in that place, Merlin has plenty of time to escape safely. 

 

~LV~

 

“I’m back,” Merlin says into his comm, walking away, briefcase heavy in his hand. 

 _No sight of our Mr Mischievous ?_ Elena asks.

Merlin laughs. “Leave it to you to ask that first. How do you know, maybe it’s a 'Miss'?”

Merlin can almost hear Elena shrug. _Just a hunch. The love affair between the two of you is too epic to be one-sided._

“I don’t operate on speculations, as you well know,” Merlin says, still smiling.

 _As we well know,_ Elena agrees. _So?_ _Come on, M, stop teasing._

Merlin’s mood sours a little. “I got it, E, but…”

 _But?_ Gwaine interjects. _There's a but? Are you clear?_

Merlin glances back and around, out of habit. “I’m clear, and have the artifact.” Both Gwaine and Elena sigh with relief. “And it’s the Triskelion," he adds, "but… I only got a part of it.”

 _What?_ Elena says. _What do you mean, a part?_

“First things first,” Merlin says. “Do I have a car?”

 _Of course,_ Elena says, sounding almost offended. _Delivered to_ _block A, spot 12._ _White Ford Focus._

Merlin checks the signs on the columns, looking for the indicated block. “I see it,” he murmurs, spotting the car. Getting to business, he first removes the spare tire from under the floor cover in the car’s trunk, shoves it under another sedan parked two spots away, and hides the briefcase in the emptied space of the trunk.

_M?_

“Here, E. I’m good.” Merlin gets into the car and slumps himself against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. Adrenalin and magic are still high in his veins and he's still feeling a bit off, as if under the weather. The artifact proved to be more powerful than anyone could anticipate. Retrieving it should feel like a victory right now, yet it doesn’t so much.

 _So, what’s happened?_ Gwaine asks.

Aside from his teammates’ voices in his ear and the sound of his own breathing, it’s very quiet in the car. It feels like he’s in a vacuum, sealed away from the rest of the world. Alone on a submarine, deep on the floor of the calmest sea. For a moment, he pretends that he is, and no one can touch him. No one to answer to, or chase after. It’s just him alone in the whole wide world. It doesn’t make him feel better. It actually makes him feel worse.

He sighs and opens his eyes.

“I’ve recovered what I can confidently say is the Triskelion,” he informs his mates, “but it’s only one-third of it. The other two legs are missing.”

_Two legs?_

“Yeah, G. The Triskelion is literally a “key with three legs”, remember?” Merlin says, rubbing his face. “I've retrieved one leg. Borden had just one. The search isn’t over.”

 _And you’ve got no intel on where the rest of it could be?_ Gwaine asks.

“No. I doubt Boden or Alvarr are even aware this is not an entire piece. Otherwise, why would Borden try to sell it now?”

 _For a quick buck? As Americans like to say,_ Elena suggests.

“Hmmm.” Merlin sits up straight and scratches his brow. “Not Borden’s style. Why sell for a fraction of the price when you can have a real payday for the entire artifact?”

His teammates don’t offer an answer.

“All right,” Merlin says after a moment. “I’ll call and debrief you in the morning.”

 _In the morning?_ Gwaine exclaims. _You’re not flying back home?_

Merlin puffs out his cheeks. "Look, I've been working non-stop for months, chasing every Borden and Alvarr thrown my way. I need a holiday."

 _What about the artifact?_ Elena asks.

"It's securely stashed for now. No one would even think about looking here," Merlin assures her. The car is now enchanted to repel anyone who’d want to get close to the trunk.  "I dodged the Bureau. I dodged the hotel security. It'll be impossible to match me to the agent confiscating the artifact; I made sure of it. I can stay here as long as I want without raising any suspicions. Gaius can rest assured I aced my mission. I deserve one night out as a private citizen."

 _So, what are you planning to do tonight?_ Gwaine asks.

Merlin smiles and fishes out the car keys tucked under the visor above his head. He doesn’t do this often, but then, how many times does he get to be in Sin City and free to unleash his inhibitions? This is a one-time opportunity, and he plans to grab it by the horns. Or, if he’s lucky, by the cock. This is the night he refuses to spend touching just his own. It’s been long enough.

“I’m in Vegas, aren’t I?” he says. “I doubt I’ll have a problem finding a way to unwind here.”

 _Wizard’s going on a pull, huh?_ Gwaine asks, voice so salacious, Merlin rolls his eyes. _Gonna hit the strip clubs, M? Get yourself some VIP treatment?_

“Now that’s none of your fucking business. As Americans like to say," Merlin responds cheerfully while getting out of the car and locking it. "Over.”

He taps the comm to shut it off and pulls it out of his ear.

For tonight, he's a free man.

 

It’s one thing traveling light for a mission, and another to spend a holiday without a change of clothes.

Merlin didn’t plan for it, but now, with a whole night ahead of him, he looks forward to getting into a fresh outfit, which he doesn’t have. He sniffs under his armpits, grimacing, and mutters a spell to clean himself up. Truthfully, Merlin doesn’t fancy this particular spell; mostly because it leaves him a bit too sensitive in certain places, proving that his magic is too strong to be used for such tedious things like skipping a bath. Yet it does the job, even if a little too well.

Still in the car, Merlin flips through the app on his mobile, reading reviews and deciding where he wants to go. He narrows it down to one particular nightclub a mile away from The Venetian that seems to be a popular local spot and perfect for what he’s looking for. 

But first he must shop.

Grand Canal Shoppes, located on the resort’s premises, provides limitless options and possibilities. Merlin doesn’t like to waste his hard-earned pounds on dressing up, but the occasion calls for something better than a pair of ragged jeans and a simple t-shirt, so before he becomes overwhelmed by the amount of brands and choices, he walks into a place he recognises the name of and to his relief, finds exactly everything he needs.

He picks up a classic dress shirt, sharply tailored and with a slick silhouette that he knows will accentuate his slim ( _Too slim_ , he thinks sometimes, but it’s fine, he’s fine with how he is, he’s _lithe_ , strong. And _bendy_. He’s fine) frame. The shirt is dark-blue, and even Merlin can admit it works well against his fair skin and the colour of his eyes. Form-fitting denim trousers that sit low on his hipbones, and a simple black wrist strap complete the look.

Even with the knowledge that the shop is far from being cheap, Merlin still suffers a mild heart attack at the register, once a smiling sales person rings him up. Swallowing a quiet sob, he parts with a small fortune and hopes it’s worth it. Right then and there, he resolves to make it so.

So, if later, Merlin’s asked what came over him, he wouldn’t be able to explain it, but as he walks by the risque shop window of Agent Provocateur, it’s like he must stop and go in. He expects quizzical looks and judging stares, but as it turns out, no one bothers. The only thing a chatty, young bloke enthusiastically advertising new arrivals is interested in is making a sale. The choice is easy, almost alarmingly so, as soon as Merlin sees what he wants, and he pays without hesitation, not even checking the price.

He changes in the fitting rooms of a shop next door, leaving his old clothes behind. It feels different, incredibly freeing, like shedding old skin. He has to adjust himself discreetly a time or two at first, but as he steps out of the mall, he smiles, catching himself in the realisation that he’s swaying his hips a little as he walks. He keeps walking.

 

~LV~

It’s still too warm for Merlin to want to walk the entire distance, so he hails a cab outside of the hotel. The club is a little off the main street, in a stand-alone building, and Merlin’s nerves spike in anticipation when he sees a neon sign blinking in bright blue ahead. He quickly hands the cabbie the money, avoiding his narrow-eyed, appraising expression. It wouldn’t take much to apprehend the older, out-of-shape man who might have a self-righteous idea of saving the world from abomination, but there’s precisely 0.001% of people in this country who actually know about the existence of magic, and Merlin would rather not reveal himself and cause an international conflict just because he’s horny and looking to get shagged by another bloke. That’s not how it’s done.

He mutters his thanks and opens the door to leave as quickly as possible, when the cabbie says, “Hey, watch out there. Keep it low if you stay late.”

Merlin pauses, surprised. “Sorry?”

"I can tell you’re not from around here. I know all the regulars."

Merlin considers his answer and simply says, "Okay."

“The club is new, the boys are loud, rowdy, and the neighbors hate it. They call the police all the time,” the cabbie explains. “And our police aren’t the friendliest in the world.”

"Right," Merlin says, glancing outside with a different eye. It does seem a little deserted. No smokers, no couples rubbing against each other outside or even just hanging out and chatting.

The man shifts, taking out a wallet, pulls a small picture out of it, and shows it to Merlin. It’s a photo of two young guys with their arms tight around each other’s waist, grinning into the camera. There’s so much love in that picture, Merlin makes a soft noise, jealous. So jealous. He turns to fully face the driver, their eyes meeting.

“That’s my son here.” The man points to one of the faces in the picture. “Freshman at the Arts Institute.”

“Oh yeah?” Merlin says, breaking into a smile. “What’s he studying?”

The man shrugs. “Says ‘Media Arts’. Sounds fancy, but I’ve no clue what that is. Costs me my entire 401K, man.”

They both chuckle, and Merlin wonders how often people turn out to be not what others expect, and how often they’re simply not given a chance to prove otherwise.

He offers the man a warm handshake. “Cheers,” he says. “Hey, good luck to your son, yeah?” he adds and assures, “I’ll be fine.”

 

 ****

Merlin hasn’t been out on a pull for god knows how long, and only gone to gay bars a few times. Most memorable was the time they went for his coming-out party years ago, thanks to Gwaine, who decided that it was the best place to celebrate Merlin’s preference for cocks. Maybe it was, but back then, being out was more about Merlin’s discovery of himself than pulling random sexual partners, so the party was mostly spent nervously smiling and quietly observing a scene. Gwaine, though, had a blast.

The days of Merlin’s questioning his own sexuality are long over. Though if he’s honest, he's never mastered the art of the effortless pull, and he still often wishes he was as free-spirited and low-on-standards as Gwaine. Life would be easier. But today, he figures that statistically, he has great chances by choosing Bliss, a popular (and not cheap, according to online reviews and the cost of cover) gay club in Vegas. Besides, he really, really doesn’t want to spend his evening guessing “Is he or isn’t he,” about a bloke and end up being wrong. It’s been known to happen to him once or twice.

It’s half-nine and there’s already a decent amount of people in the club, which spans two storeys and looks bigger than Merlin expected, when he walks in. The ground level is furnished in an ultra-modern style, with an oval-shaped dance floor covered with lit-up glass tiles and encased by white cushy couches. There’s a lounge area with tables and private booths on the upper level. The entire space pulses blue, red, and white in time with the _boom-boom-boom_ of the music. Predictably, there’s a large disco ball hanging down from the ceiling, spinning and sending fireworks of blinding sparks in every direction. Merlin doesn’t recognise the song playing, the words inviting him to “Watch ‘em move”... Oh, he’s hoping to do more than just watch tonight.

The music’s loud, and Merlin suspects it’s going to get louder here, if what the flyer handed to him at the door says is to be believed. He’s about to see “The Dirtiest Show on Earth” in a half-hour, followed by a “Come Party”. Now, Merlin’s most certainly up for that kind of a show. This is going to be a great night.

“Would you like a table upstairs or d’you prefer a spot by the bar, honey?” The most gorgeous lady in drag appears at his side as he stops, taking in the scene. Her voice is deep and warm. She's taller than Merlin and kind of burly, but her makeup is flawless -- from perfectly tinted eyebrows and glossy, contoured lips to matte skin without a single blemish -- and the look is complete with the long, blond, shiny locks framing her face. It's not Merlin's thing, but he's never seen a drag queen so jaw-droppingly beautiful. He nearly swallows his tongue.

“Look all you want, darling.” She flips her hair and shimmies her shoulders with the confidence of a person who knows they’re a knockout. “But I tell you what, if you’re looking for a true Bliss experience, see what a shot boy can do for you.” She points her perfectly manicured finger at someone at the bar. “They are delish.”

“Oh, okay,” Merlin croaks, scratching his wrist, unsure what exactly he’s agreeing to, but nodding all the same. He waves towards the bar. “I’ll--”

She laughs again. “Aren’t you a precious lambkin. I’m Viv, by the way.”

She holds out her hand expectantly. Merlin cradles it carefully for a moment, feeling awkward about kissing it, so he just squeezes, smiling, and lets go. “Hullo, Viv.”

“Yes, hello there.” She pauses, giving him a long, measuring, up-and-down look from under her mile-long lashes. She takes him by his chin. “Has anyone told you how positively luscious your lips are? They are obscene.”  She kisses a stunned Merlin soundly on the mouth and fans her hand in front of her, humming her approval. “Aren’t you hot stuff? If I weren’t working tonight, I might have wanted you all to myself.” 

Merlin’s just standing there, blinking.

“Oh come on, darling, I’m not the one you want,” Viv says, touching a finger to her lower lip to fix the gloss. “Hey, Ewan, sweetheart,” she calls over the music to someone, waving. “Get us a shot ready! On me!” 

Taking Merlin by his shoulders, she gives him a slight push. “Go, baby, go. You look like you could use some tequila and a private booth.” She winks.

Merlin wakes up. Because accurate assessment is accurate.

“Uh,” he manages. “Thanks.”

“You're most welcome.” Viv nods. “Ewan will take care of you.”

“Ewan”, a tall, fit bloke in nothing but a silver Speedo and a bow tie, is waiting for Merlin at the bar with a tray stocked with a shot glass full of clear liquid, a salt shaker, and a slice of lime on the napkin.

“Never done this before?” Ewan smiles.

Merlin shakes his head, nervous and equally excited at the sight of this handsome, extremely well-built man with shimmering bronze skin, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and muscles bulging everywhere. Yes, _everywhere_. Merlin gazes at the front of his Speedo with deep appreciation.

“I lie down. You pick the spot on my body that does it for you, pour the shot there, shake salt next to it. Lick, inhale, enjoy,” Ewan explains patiently. “Some like it around the neck. Some prefer the navel. So, what’s your pick?”

Both are great choices, but Merlin's afraid that he needs to be in a little less a sober condition before he’ll be comfortable enough licking salt off some stranger’s body in public (even a bloke as fit as this).

“What, right here?” he asks, gesturing vaguely around the bar at all the people starting to take interest.

Ewan laughs. “Sure. Come on!”

Merlin smiles, shaking his head. “Thanks, mate, but I’ll take a rain check.” He starts backing away.

“Heeeyyy, where are you going?” Ewan stops him by hooking a finger over Merlin’s belt loop and pulls him back. “That’s not how we do things around here.”

“Oi!” Merlin stumbles forward.

“Viv will kill me if I don’t make sure you have a good time. She paid for it, you know, and she rarely does that,” Ewan says, picking up the glass. “Here. Take this.”

Flustered, Merlin accepts the glass.

“Give me that.” Ewan grabs Merlin’s other hand, turns it sideways, and shakes some salt on the spot between his thumb and point finger. “Lick it. Do it!” he instructs Merlin.

Merlin obediently licks the salt, scrunching up his nose.

“Now drink. Don’t wait too long!” Ewan commands, and Merlin downs the shot, the bitter-strong taste burning down his throat. He coughs, making a grossed-out face. The aftertaste is even more yucky, but the warmth rapidly spreading inside him is worth this small drawback.

“And now this, quick.” Ewan takes a slice of lime and brings it to his own lips, inviting Merlin to…

"What?"

“Suck!” Ewan repeats the garbled order, with the lime already wedged between his teeth.

Merlin looks around and, thinking, _Fuck it,_ pulls Ewan by the arm. The crowd around them hoots and claps, someone’s voice -- probably Viv’s -- cheering the loudest, while he presses his mouth to Ewan's and sucks on the lime.

“No longer a virgin!” Ewan yells after, lips beguilingly wet, as he points at a pucker-faced but pleased with himself Merlin.

Everything gets better from this point on. Merlin orders another shot with the encouragement of the crowd, and this time doesn't hesitate when Ewan hops up on the bar and stretches on his back, along the length of the counter. With the loud cheering of the entire bar, Merlin sets the tequila-drinking station using Ewan's navel and enthusiastically slurps it all out, tracing his tongue down. Ewan has the silkiest, most delicious happy trail of them all, he decides after the second shot. The tequila is still shite, though.

Merlin opens yet another top button of his shirt, head pleasantly buzzing, free of thoughts; the world’s at his feet, even if slightly blurry and unstable.

So it's unclear, when he thinks about it later, how he ends up freezing and zooming in his focus on one particular face among many others sitting at the end of the bar. Maybe it's because it's the only face with a frown in the entire club. And it looks familiar...

It’s Mister Socks-in-Sandals from the cab in his hideous aloha shirt, and Mister Hideous does not look pleased at all, sitting with a drink in front of him. He catches Merlin staring, frowns, and quickly looks away. Well, that’s weird. Is it possible that he doesn’t remember Merlin already? Because Merlin certainly remembers him. And let’s face it, not exactly in the best possible light. Maybe he can fix it? No one should look this unhappy spending the night in the club.   

Merlin calls for the bartender. A twink with at least a pound of product in his dark hair and dressed in a cropped glitter top and silver shiny shorts that are way too snug on him. Merlin wonders how they don't rip at the seams when he moves around. And the guy _does_ move around, mostly by way of wiggling his bottom in time with the music while pouring drinks and snatching money from the people's hands paying for them.

He takes his time to make his way to Merlin. “What can I get you?” he asks over the music and loud chatter of the crowd.

“What’s the guy over there drinking?” Merlin asks back.

“Which?”

“That one.” Merlin points. “The one with the frown.”

“Whisky. Neat,” the guy says, taking the bottle from the top shelf.

“Why am I not surprised,” Merlin mutters, pulling two twenties from his back pocket, and says, loud again, “Pour him another. And a dirty martini for me. Thanks!”

Merlin hands him money.

“You owe me,” Merlin says, squeezing himself between a couple of blokes groping each other by the bar and nods to the bartender to place the new drink in front of Mr Hideous Everything. The guy snaps his head to look at the bartender, then at Merlin. His eyes widen in surprise. He flicks them over Merlin in such a way, Merlin feels like he’s just been x-rayed; also, the air’s just become a few degrees warmer in the club.

“No, thanks.” The guy turns away without touching the glass, the grim line back on his mouth.

Merlin blanches but recovers quickly. “Wow,” he says loudly, dragging the word out. “Impressive. And I thought you were an arse before.”

The bloke's head jerks back a little at Merlin’s jab, but he doesn’t turn to look at him again, focusing instead on the bartender twirling a bottle between his fingers before pouring someone else a drink.

Something’s happening on the erected stage adjacent to the dance floor; the music’s being muted, and a loud, jubilant voice Merlin recognises as Viv’s announces the start of the dirtiest show on Earth. People cheer, and almost everyone around them files from their spots to move closer to the performers, who are opening the show by twerking their bums in the ecstatic faces of the audience -- and there are feathers involved.

Merlin stays put, finding that ribbing this guy here is a lot better entertainment than having a crop shoved between his legs, which is what's happening on the stage to a volunteer from the crowd as the next act. 

Mr Grim-face turns to look at the going-bonkers crowd over his shoulder and gives Merlin a cursory glance, as if checking he's still here. Oh, he is, and is starting to get more invested, seeing that he's no longer being actively ignored. Smiling, Merlin sits down at the freed-up high chair next to him, spreading his knees, and sips on his martini.

The bloke sighs. “Why don’t you go to watch the show?” he asks, bringing his almost-empty glass to his mouth, Merlin’s peace offering still being ignored.

“That’s okay.” Merlin kicks the guy’s foot -- accidentally, of course. “I’m mainly here for the come party.” 

The guy’s hand freezes mid-air; he tilts his head towards Merlin. “The what?”

“The Come Party. Where everybody comes, obviously,” Merlin explains, making earnest eyes, and is generously compensated for his efforts -- the stupefied look on guy’s face is priceless.

“Jesus Christ,” the guy mutters, but the good news is, he no longer looks like someone’s pissed on his cornflakes. Now his expression’s on the dopey side, which can be counted as an improvement, and Merlin mentally pats himself on the back.

“You can join if you like,” Merlin offers with a generous smile.

To the guy’s credit, he doesn’t take the bait this time. Spinning on his chair to face Merlin, he seems more annoyed than flustered when he says, “No thank you. I’m not looking for a hook-up.”

Merlin can’t say he’s happy with the implication that it’s all _he’s_ here for (okay, it's mostly true, but this is still not fair). He clicks his tongue. “Ah. Then what are you doing here? Fell behind your advisory board’s charity dinner and oops, accidentally stumbled into a bar for poofs?”

Merlin’s pinned down with a long, scrutinizing, very sharp look, probably meant as contemptuous, but he sees something else there -- well-hidden panic and not-so-well-hidden interest. And he likes it. Because he, himself, is interested -- drawn to the sullen quirk of this man’s mouth, no less attractive than when it’s stretched in a wide grin, and to the sight of the wide planes of the thick, sinuous columns of his neck, impossible to ignore even with the distraction of that ridiculous print of his shirt. The watch on his wrist says style and class. Merlin likes it -- he really can’t help himself, and maybe he shouldn’t. The guy might be guarding his expressions well under the low line of his pulled-down brows, but there’s no subtlety to the shift of his foot, inched to Merlin’s, so their knees are almost touching.

“Shit,” the man exhales but doesn’t offer further explanation.   

Something goes loose and jiggly in Merlin’s gut, and it puts him on edge even more than he was before. It reminds him of the times he went for a swim in the lake by his mum’s house. When he’d dip his foot into the water for the first time, and there’d be that brief moment of nervous anticipation -- of holding breath and waiting to see how cold the water was. This is how Merlin feels right now. Like he’s at the precipice of something, waiting for that seizing fear of the unknown to pass, so he’ll either dive in or back away.    

He watches the guy run his hand through his hair, hesitation and maybe -- he hopes -- even chagrin in the lines creasing around his mouth. Maybe it’s how he looks rubbing his forehead and blowing out a breath, or maybe it’s how he looks at _Merlin_ after that, with his elbow on the bar, supporting his tilted head, face turned to Merlin. Maybe it’s just shadows adding a tint of wonderment to his gleaming eyes that stops Merlin from telling him, “Exactly, you arse,” and walking away.

He regrets his decision even less when the guy sits up straighter and asks, glancing at his martini, “No more tequila for you?” giving him (finally!) a small but decisive smile.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “It was shit.”

The bloke snorts, sarcastic. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Merlin chuckles. “I noticed that you noticed.”

“Was hard not to.” The guy meets his eyes, with new intent there, and Merlin feels a slight shiver chilling the back of his neck. _Yessss._

Merlin offers him a grin, leaning a touch closer, not lowering his gaze. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he confides, his head light and chest full of courage. “Considering you _watched_ me.” He pauses. “And thought I was a tart.”

“Busted." The guys spreads his hands in acquiescence, his smile spreading too, to Merlin’s delight. "But you’ve disillusioned me quickly. Somehow... Is that a talent of yours?” he asks and offers Merlin his hand. “I’m Arthur.”

Arthur’s hand is cool, a little clammy, and his handshake firm, lingering. _Hello._

“Merlin,” Merlin tells him, the thought of lying and making up a fake name not even crossing his mind. “I have _many_ talents.”

Arthur laughs genuinely -- a throaty, sexy sound -- his head tipping back. “I believe it.”

Merlin loves that laugh.

“I’m sorry if you had a crap day,” he says, surprising himself, and as it seems, Arthur, who goes from cheerful to sheepish in a short span of time.    

“Even if I’ve been an arse to you?” he asks, scratching his elbow. “ _Twice_.” He puts his now-empty glass aside and picks up the one bought for him by Merlin, pointedly bringing it to his mouth. 

Merlin shrugs, finding he can’t help being placated by this convoluted, _prattish_ way that Arthur’s offering an olive branch. “Like I said, you owe me. And I’m looking forward to finding a way to collect it.” He grins slowly, with meaning. “ _Twice_.”

Arthur makes a disapproving sound, although his expression suggests otherwise. “Opportunist much?”

“Worried?” Merlin teases.

If Arthur is, he’s discarding it by the shake of his blond head. “No. After the day I’ve had, as you perceptively noted, I’m rather _buzzing_ with anticipation.”

Merlin doesn’t miss the flirtatiousness in Arthur’s tone. “Oh, is that so? I’ll be sure to think of something worthy of your no-doubt high standards.”

“Well, not _that_ high. I’m here,” Arthur says, twirling his finger around, which makes Merlin realise how much everything else but Arthur has faded into the background and muted since they fell into conversation: the show, still going on in the periphery of his vision; the shot boys, slinking around in their sexy bowties; the urgency to release all the pent-up tension that’s been building inside him for months. His magic... His magic’s been oddly dormant, _patient_... Huh _._

“Yes, we established that earlier,” Merlin agrees, injecting a note of ridicule into his tone. “You prefer Shoreditch House?” he asks. “By invitation only?” 

“Sounds like you’re no stranger to London’s finest,” Arthur fires back.

Merlin scoffs. “Hardly. I’d rather have a pint at The Albion.”

Arthur perks up. “The pub on Thornhill Road?”

“You know it?” Merlin asks, surprised.

Arthur nods, a somewhat nostalgic expression dawning on his face. “Been once or twice. You live in London?” He doesn’t hide his interest in Merlin’s answer, leaning forward to hear it as the crowd goes mad again, set off by the debauchery happening on the podium.

Once more, Merlin's being honest, offering a, “Yep. You?”  and feeling warmer, fuller, inside at Arthur’s pleased for some reason smile.

“Born and bred.”

“I guessed as much,” Merlin says.

“Oh?”

“Your posh London accent gives you away.”

“Ha. Right,” Arthur agrees. “Yours isn’t from London... It’s not that obvious,” he rushes to add.

Merlin nods proudly, waving. “Grew up in small town up north. Although, to be honest, I travel so much, I sometimes wonder I can still speak English. It’s all mixed up in my head,” he shares, lowering his voice, and this is puzzling him. Why is he so open all of a sudden? It’s as if he can’t help it, so he adds an apologetic, “I’m slightly pissed right now, so… My ‘p’s and ‘r’s are more noticeable, I guess.” 

“I think it suits you.” Arthur places his arm with his glass next to Merlin’s on the bar.

“Next, you’ll tell me you like my ears, and then I’ll know you’re well and properly sloshed.”

Arthur laughs. “Still have a ways to go. Give me another hour.”

“Prat,” Merlin grumbles, then asks, playful, “decided to stay for the Come Party, after all?”

Arthur makes a gurgling noise, swallows. “Merlin, would you stop with that? What is that party, anyway? Surely not what you made it sound like?”

It’s Merlin’s turn to look sheepish. “No, not really. I think it’s dedicated to all the brave souls who had the courage to come out of the closet and are here to celebrate today.”

Arthur rubs his elbow, thoughtful. “It takes some courage, yes. Wasn’t fun for me.”

Merlin hums, appreciating the honesty, but doesn’t ask for details, respecting the topic. His own turmoil was more about being thoroughly confused through his teenage years, not finding the girls he’d tried to date physically appealing and feeling guilty about it. It took Gwaine, whom he’d met in his second year of uni, to explain it plainly by palming Merlin into almost instant and painful arousal and offering to suck him off. Beet-red Merlin turned the offer down and never regretted it -- he had gained a best friend for life instead, but it sure was an eye-opening experience.

They sip their drinks together in a short, reflective silence.

“I have this mate,” Merlin says, deciding on a different note. “We work together. But that’s not important.”

Arthur looks at him with amusement, probably wondering where Merlin’s going with this, and Merlin waves his hand with the drink still in it, telling Arthur to shut up without actually saying it, and splashes the drink all over his hand, of course...

But where was he? Oh yes.

“Among many other things, my mate loves dicks,” Merlin tells on, matter-of-factly, and watches with delight how Arthur chokes on his own drink a little.

“I did not see that coming,” Arthur admits.

“Wait for it,” Merlin says, remembering at the last minute that he’s already tested the theory of safe hand-waving while holding liquids, and it failed. “He loves dicks so much, he has a blog about it.”

“What, like porn?” Arthur’s snort is condescending.

“I said wait for it.” Merlin purses his lips in admonishment. “There’s some porn, yes. Dicks, too, of course. Mostly cut. He has a thing for cut dicks.”

“God, so much information.” Arthur laughs. “Although you won’t hear me shaming someone’s tastes.”

“Good to know.” Merlin nods and clears his throat. “As I was saying, his blog is full of information related to his big obsession. He loves talking about dicks. Loves discussing shapes, sizes, advantages of having it and being into it. That’s his thing. There’s a lot of encouragement and support on his blog, and he gets quite poetic. He calls it his give-back to the community.”

“And you’re his biggest fan?” Arthur asks, and there’s a certain tightness to his tone, like he’s fishing for something -- and Merlin thinks he knows what it might be.

He takes a sip from his drink and pauses to swallow. “Not exactly, he’s a little too, uh, versatile for me. But we’re good mates. ”

“Right.” Arthur takes another pull from his glass, a little too casually. “Are you a blogger?”

Merling shakes head, smiling.

“No dick blogs, then?” Arthur asks.

Merlin scratches his wrist. “Nah. I’m not into that.”

Arthur’s brows fly up. “Dicks? Or blogging?”

Merlin looks at him. “Talking.” He places his drink aside and leans forward; Arthur's leaning in as well, and they’re so close, their heads almost touching. “I’m more of a tactile person,” Merlin shares in a low voice.

Arthur’s eyes rove over Merlin’s face. “Tactile?”

“Yes. You saw me. I’m more about touch…” Merlin drags the end of the word "touch", letting it sizzle off his tongue and sear the air while he drags two fingers along Arthur’s arm, “...and taste.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath. Merlin can read lust when he sees it. _Hook, line, and sinker._

So he rises to his feet with a, “Gotta use the loo,” and leaves, ignoring Arthur’s half-stunned, half-irritated expression.

He doesn’t mean to take long; in fact, he’s even rushing a little. Having quickly washed his hands, he fires up the hand dryer that sounds like it’s about to launch itself into space, so maybe that’s why he doesn’t hear the door open. And his magic, damn it, doesn’t bother to warn him as someone rudely slams the button on the dryer to shut it off and crowds him. Merlin whirls around, and it’s his turn to gape like a fish.

“Arth--?” The question’s stuck in his throat when Arthur pulls him close and pushes a hand under the waistband of Merlin's trousers.

“Are you always such a cocktease?” he asks, grabbing Merlin’s arsecheek unceremoniously. “Is this what--” He stills when his fingers meet nothing but a thin string of lace, his mouth slacking. “Merlin?” This time he sounds unsure, and maybe even a bit breathless.

Merlin squirms. “It seemed like a good idea a few hours ago,” he mumbles.

Arthur's eyes light up, the blue in them turning bright and deep, his teeth catching his bottom lip. Without warning, he flips Merlin around and presses his front to the door, his chest flush against Merlin’s back. His fingers curl around the fabric of the thong and he pulls on it, hard. It bites into Merlin's skin between the cheeks, rubs against the sensitive skin of his hole, and Merlin hisses at the unexpected sharp pleasure jolting through him.

“It’s a motherfuckin' brilliant idea,” Arthur says, breathing harshly into his ear.

Merlin huffs, clenching at the feel of Arthur’s nail grazing against the cleft of his behind as his finger dips lower.

“Yeah? Gonna rip it with your teeth?” he asks with his cheek pressed into the cold wood. Even in this position he manages to make it taunting.

“Mmmm. Thought about that, did you?” Arthur murmurs, pressing into him harder, his other hand finding Merlin’s hip to squeeze it under the shirt. “And then what?” Arthur clamps his teeth over his earlobe and sucks on it until Merlin moans.

“Want me to spread you?” Arthur asks and kicks Merlin’s feet wider apart. “Lap you up?” He licks a wide stripe from the base of Merlin’s neck up to his ear again, and Merlin shudders in anticipation and from heady words mixed with ragged breath.

Arthur doesn’t stop.

“Want me to loosen you and stretch you with my tongue? Right here." He rubs one blunt, almost too rough, finger where Merlin is hot and so bloody needy, his moan becomes a whine. “You fucking want that?”

Merlin fucking does, scenario turning in his head, offering such vivid, dirty images, he’s ready to push Arthur down and demand everything he’s being promised.

“Do it,” Merlin says, jutting his arse into Arthur’s large hand. “Or do you just talk big?”

Arthur hums. “You want to know what’s big?”

And Jesus fucking Christ, if Arthur doesn’t move to trap both Merlin’s wrists in a vice grip above his head while he grinds himself against Merlin’s arse with such force, the bones on Merlin face hurt from being pressed too hard into the door. He isn’t going to complain, though, especially after having been offered such a glorious test-run.

“Go on, Merlin, _touch_.” Still pushed up against Merlin, Arthur pries Merlin’s right hand off the wall, and, twining their fingers together, brings it between their bodies to cup himself. “Big enough?” he drawls, rocking into it.

Merlin’s afraid to look back at Arthur, to reveal how much he loves this, how much it feels like if Arthur stops this game, he’d expire from hot arousal burning up his every cell. Or worse -- he might start begging. He doesn’t want to beg. Tonight is about taking what he's been deprived of for so long, the craving wipes away his every rational thought and makes his cock painfully hard.

“It’ll do,” he rasps and squeezes Arthur.

Arthur gasps and swears. “Fucking cockteasing bastard. _Yes_.”

Merlin makes quick work of unzipping Arthur’s shorts, and if there’s a bit of magic involved to help him to do it faster, he doesn’t bother to worry -- he needs this too much. Arthur presses his forehead to the spot between Merlin's shoulders with another, “Fuck, yes,” when Merlin palms him through the fabric of his pants.

“No one better come in right now,” Arthur mutters.

“No one will,” Merlin assures, sliding his hand inside Arthur’s pants. The door has no lock, so he makes one, invisible but secure, with a flick of a thought. And then all thoughts are gone again when Arthur’s cock, hot, thick, and already slick with pre-come, is in his hand. “Bloody hell, Arthur.”

“That’s right.” Arthur snaps his hips into Merlin’s grasp. “Want a _taste_ , too?” He pulls Merlin’s shirt off his shoulder and sucks a bruise (Merlin’s sure) at the slope of his neck, and Merlin doesn’t even think about protesting, rolling his head to the side and giving more access. Asking for another bruise.

“And then I’ll fuck you.” Arthur’s words are hot and hoarse under the line of his jaw. 

“Shit.”

They’ve barely started and Merlin’s already feeling ravished. Raw.  

When Arthur does something complicated and delicious with his tongue and teeth to the back of Merlin’s neck again -- right at his hairline -- he trembles, shuddering with his entire body. It’s never been like this before, with anyone. Never _this_ consuming to the point of seizing. Or vaporizing.

“Found it,” Arthur whispers, triumphant, and does that thing again. Merlin can’t breathe.

He bangs his forehead on the door once and tells himself it’s not too late to get a hold of himself. He just needs to keep it playful and ignore that prickly, stuffy feeling his lungs seem to be full of.

And it’s not just magic, he knows it. It’s not magic making him gasp for air.

 _Stop,_ he wants to say, but doesn’t, because it’s not that, he doesn’t really want to stop. He’s still painfully horny, damn it. He just wants this overwhelming thing inside him to go away. He wants Arthur to stop being so intimate and familiar. So brilliant. So brightly hot, like a curse branding his skin; so meticulous, yet _affectionate_ with his tongue’s scribbles. Like he knows where and how to touch so Merlin burns to ashes, and knows still how to make him rise to life again.

It shouldn’t feel that way.

It’s just a shag.

“Okay,” Merlin murmurs, taking a deep breath. “Okay. But.” He twists around, still keeping his grip on Arthur’s straining cock.

They’re almost the same height, Merlin notes as he levels his eyes with Arthur, and that’s good -- it serves as a reminder that they’re on equal ground here, which then brings some of Merlin’s boldness back. Grabbing Arthur by his shoulder, he squeezes his heavy and leaking erection, loving the weight and the fit of it in his hand, and starts jerking him off, first slowly, then speeding up. “What happened to your showing me your skillful tongue?” he asks, feeling like he’s back to familiar territory when he sees Arthur’s lost in pleasure, his hair plastered to his forehead, eyes hooded, lips parted in shallow panting.

Arthur tries to focus his gaze on Merlin, frowning, then cuts off whatever else Merlin starts to say with a kiss, deep and with plenty of tongue, sucking on Merlin’s until it hurts, but Merlin only wants more. This is good -- exactly what he needs. They fall apart when neither of them can breathe. “Who said tongue won’t be involved?” Arthur asks between gasps.

Merlin doesn’t notice when this happens, but then, both Arthur’s hands are inside his trousers, kneading his cheeks, fingers digging into the flesh next to his hole possessively. “Christ, _yes_ ,” he moans, and goes for another mouth-searing kiss, which seems to go on forever. It’s so good, Merlin almost forgets about everything else, and is reminded about the task at hand, so to speak, when Arthur growls into his mouth and thrusts into Merlin’s slackened grasp.

This is becoming too much foreplay for a quick shag in a loo. There's probably a crowd of sloshed men waiting outside and Merlin can’t stave them off from the toilets forever.

“Come on,” he urges Arthur then, twisting and speeding his hand up. He starts pushing Arthur's shorts down, this close from using magic to do the job. He's never been riddled with lust and need to the point of giving zero fucks about his cover. “Come on, mine too, quick,” he demands in a harsh breath, frustrated.

Arthur stops moving. Despite Merlin's protesting sounds, he carefully eases his hand out of Merlin’s trousers and slumps against him. “Wait,” he whispers, pressing protesting Merlin to the door, nose to cheek. Merlin’s hand stays trapped between them.

“What?” Merlin asks, opening his unfocused eyes. “Why?”

Arthur shifts and this is becoming awkward, fast, with Merlin’s fingers wrapped around Arthur’s still-hard cock and Merlin is _pouting_.

Arthur searches his eyes, and the look on his face is far from rejection, Merlin sees that. Confusion, embarrassment maybe...

“What's wrong?” he asks, softer.

“Can we get out of here?” Arthur exhales loudly, nostrils flaring. “I-- I still want…” He glances down at himself and winces, and Merlin releases him.

“Go where?”

“Back-- back to the hotel?” Arthur still sounds unsure. “I’d like to do this properly.”

Merlin adjusts himself. Christ, why hasn’t he noticed before how uncomfortably scratchy this lace is? Arthur pulls back and tucks himself back into his shorts and zips up. Merlin wonders why it doesn’t seem remotely humorous -- this whole situation. Arthur in his horrid hawaiian shirt, and that ridiculous cargo thing that flatters his perky bum, but combined with the shirt does nothing to help his style, and there’s no hiding that large scar running across his right knee. He’s in an upscale club, supposedly on a pull, for fuck’s sake, which was going not half-bad at first, in Merlin’s opinion.

Merlin still likes the man. A lot. And he still wants him. The aching feeling in his very-blue balls doesn’t lie.

Still -- still…

Merlin chuckles. “Do what properly? You aren’t planning to marry me, are ya? I promise, I won’t run to your mum about my stolen virtue.”

Arthur frowns. “I-- ” He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry... It's just--” He looks around and shakes his head. “Never mind. This was a bad idea. The whole thing, actually.”

“What?”

How did they go from a hot almost-shag to the invitation to the hotel and now to regretting the whole thing? And again, something in Arthur’s expression… As if he’s being insincere while being sincere. This man has been a walking, talking contradiction since the moment Merlin met him. With his stupid socks and sexy watches. His wide, bright-blue eyes and filthy mouth.

But Merlin knows that ‘no’ means ‘no’. It could’ve been so good, though, he can tell. Not just tell -- he _felt_ it. They could’ve been good. They _were_ for a brief moment there. And just for that special moment that Merlin doubts he’ll forget anytime soon, he’s grateful. He can’t be upset with the man after that experience, even if it happened in the loo of some gay bar, however upscale and trendy. 

He smiles. “I understand.” Pushing himself off the door, he’s chest to Arthur’s heaving chest, who doesn’t step back, stands in Merlin’s space and stares at him with arms hanging by his sides and head slightly dipped down. Merlin hesitates, and on a strange whim, reaches out and brushes Arthur’s damp hair away from his eyes. “It was...”

Nothing appropriate for the moment comes to mind. _Lovely. Magical. Bloody confusing. Mental._ Those are not the words he’d vocalise.

He's wise enough to offer a, “Take care, Arthur. Good luck out there,” instead. Make it light-hearted and manage a wink. “The night is young, yeah?”

He runs his hand through his hair, hoping that its tousled state makes him look less bothered by the rejection than he feels, and salutes Arthur, “Cheers, mate,” as he turns to leave.

“Fuck… Merlin, wait.” Arthur surges forward and grabs him by his shirt.

It’s completely unexpected and utterly welcome -- Arthur’s hands on Merlin’s face and a tender press of his lips to Merlin’s.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he says with another press of lips, more insistent. “I want to leave this place. With you. I want to spend the night with you. I want--"

He kisses Merlin like he knows him, like Merlin is the only thing that will ever matter, and Merlin’s lost again.

“--want to touch, Merlin.” He rubs his thumb over Merlin’s bottom lip, brushes fingers across his jaw. “And taste. And-- " He pauses and huffs as if he can’t believe what he’s about to say. Says it anyway, breathless. “And probably feel a lot more than I was prepared for, but I want that too." His smile is a quiet defeat. “There’s something about you, Merlin. And I feel like I have to figure it out.”

They’re kissing like mad again, while Merlin doesn’t know what to do with his hands and his magic, a turmoil in the pit of his stomach, confused but approving, so he lets his reservations go and lets himself explore. Arthur’s strong arms, broad shoulders, cords of muscles on his neck. Slight stubble covering his jaw. Surprisingly soft hair. When they pull apart, Merlin threads his fingers with Arthur’s and tugs him close again.

“Might take you more than just one night,” he warns, forehead touching forehead.

“If you let me,” Arthur replies.

It’s madness, but Merlin thinks he will. 

 

~LV~

 

They leave the restroom, Merlin following Arthur outside. It was Arthur's idea to take it beyond a quick fuck, after all. Surprisingly, there's no line waiting by the door. Maybe Merlin overdid it with his magic, but who cares? It's vacant now, is it not?

Walking by the bar, Arthur turns to him. "Want another drink before we go? And I didn't see you eat anything all evening. Maybe we should order something." The music is so loud on the dance floor, Arthur's almost yelling in Merlin's ear.

An unfamiliar, pleasant feeling unfurls warmly in Merlin's chest. He can't recall a single person, apart from his mum, ever showing a concern for him of such sort. He half-laughs, half-coughs.

"Gonna pay with your Monopoly money?"

"Oh, worry not." Arthur grins. "I can pay."

Merlin stops and glares at him.

"What?" Arthur innocently scratches his jaw.

"You played me in the cab, didn't you? You had the money."

Arthur has the gall to look bashful. "You refused to split the fare. And you were rather handsome all riled up."

Merlin laughs. "You're such a dick."

"Yeah, I hear that a lot," Arthur says. “Now come, let me make it up to you.”

If this is an apology, it's not the best, but Merlin can't deny he's got a worthy opponent here, which is a rare thing and deserves to be acknowledged.

“Right. What about your credit card conspiracy speech?” Merlin asks, remembering.

Arthur shrugs. “That was true. So. Wine and dine you first?” He smiles, pointing his thumb to the upper level with the tables.

“Oh, the ‘proper’ bit.” Merlin makes quotes in the air and waves it off. “I don’t care for that. Unless you’re hungry." And when Arthur shakes his head no, he suggests, "Let's just take a bottle of... was it Jack you were drinking? Bottle of Jack, yes. And get out of here. I’m developing a headache."

“Right.” Arthur smirks and steps to the bar, looking at the bartender. Not for the first time since Merlin met Arthur, he notes how other people react to Arthur’s presence. He isn't sure what it is, but Arthur manages to capture immediate attention by simply placing a hand on the top of the bar and raising one finger. Merlin can't hear what he says to the guy behind the bar. He takes an order from Arthur, showing a perfect top row of glistening teeth in a smile, which Merlin can't describe as anything else but _inviting_ , and nods, touching Arthur's hand. _What. A.Twat_.

Merlin moves into Arthur's space, resisting an urge to act in a way that may be perceived as too territorial. Such as licking a long, wet stripe from the base of Arthur's jaw up to his temple, or peeing on his leg. It takes one quick glance to see it's not necessary -- a small upturn of Arthur's mouth tells him all. It's slight, but Merlin's good at noting subtleties, and with Arthur it seems unavoidable. Merlin’s eyes trace the lines of the side of Arthur’s face appreciatively. A prominent aquiline hump and the sharp angles of his nose remind him of Romanesque sculptures, and they’re in perfect balance with his strongly defined lips, chin, and forehead. All together, Arthur's features are well-proportioned in that very muscular, confident way, conveying pride, defiance… _oh_ _bloody hell…_ Merlin’s got it bad if he’s waxing poetic about some guy’s profile, although it’s a wet dream of every aspiring artist. Or a person with eyes and a… tongue. _Fuck._ Merlin can’t honestly remember being this attracted (and this attuned) to someone else before.

He moves closer, and Arthur shifts his stance a little. Merlin places his arm on the bar, his elbow knocking Arthur's, their skin moist from the stuffy air of the club, but Arthur doesn’t show a sign of being bothered by it. Without looking at Merlin, he presses back, their shoulders touching as well. Merlin quickly drops his head, hiding his smile, and tells himself none of this means anything,although the buzzing under his skin and the dizzying feeling from the proximity of the man, who basically vowed to give him the best sex of his life should he want it, suggest otherwise.

Merlin very much wants, more with every passing moment.

The entire night has turned into this long, torturous foreplay, with a promise of something incredible to come (and Merlin does have high expectations concerning multiple orgasms), and yet he's not in a hurry, enjoying this delicious stretch of anticipation. The waiting becomes a game in itself. When the bottle’s delivered and Arthur leaves a fifty on the top of the counter with, “Keep the change,” neither of them move to leave right away.

 

~LV~

 

They crack the Jack open while waiting for their Uber outside of the club, taking turns sipping from the bottle. The app on Merlin’s mobile has had a little timer-flag stuck on the same location for at least fifteen minutes without moving when they finally give up and cancel the request.

“It’s past midnight. Think we should start walking?” Merlin asks.

Arthur shrugs and brings the bottle to his mouth again. He keeps his gaze on Merlin, taking a long pull like someone who’s had a lot of practise drinking expensive, throat-burning shite like this. Merlin’s kind of impressed. In the reflection of the neon club sign blinking above their heads, he can see Arthur’s Adam’s apple working up and down, a slow, steady motion, deliberate and seductive, just like the glint in his half-hooded eyes.

“Easy,” Merlin says, but then if Arthur does it, why can’t Merlin? No less deliberately, he reaches down and adjusts himself, as a reminder he too has something Arthur’s yet to have unwrapped. He pulls the bottle out of Arthur’s hand, taking a courageous swig (with a lot less finesse, of course. Oh well.) and starts walking.    

They aren’t too far from the main street, even on foot, and even at this hour, the Las Vegas Strip is saturated with lights and colour, every inch of space covered in flashing adverts promoting casinos, concerts, and special events; it's busy and noisy, with cars passing, people carousing, and promises of entertainment, easy money, ultimate prizes, and cheap romance at every turn. 

Merlin might’ve overestimated his tolerance abilities, as drinking whiskey straight up after almost an entire day without a proper meal (a soggy ham and cheese sandwich and small vine of grapes on the flight this morning don’t count) is like a shot directly to his vein. He isn’t drunk entirely, and he still hasn’t forgotten about his own ultimate prize of this evening -- the quirky, sexy-as-fuck bloke walking next to him and currently bottoming up Jack Daniels wrapped in a brown bag -- but Merlin’s certainly not sober. He likes this floaty feeling that keeps him somewhere on the edge between pissed and still somewhat aware of things and people around him. And he’s definitely aware of the semi in his pants he’s been sporting pretty much permanently this evening, which doesn’t seem to be conducive to walking a significant distance. Arthur’s isn’t much better, unless Merlin hasn’t noticed that slightly slanted quality to his gait before. Merlin lets Arthur walk ahead a little, watching him, and grins. Yep, definitely limping. Cockblocking bastard got what he deserved. 

Arthur slows down and looks at him sideways, with a cocked brow, which sends Merlin into a peal of laughter.

Arthur smiles indulgently. “What’s so funny, Merlin?”

“You,” Merlin says and pulls Arthur in for a wet kiss.

It works like magic. Arthur stops in the middle of the full-of-nightlife street, wraps an arm around Merlin’s shoulder, and goes for it, his teeth scraping at the bottom of Merlin’s lip before sucking it in, his tongue hot and demanding. The sharp taste of whiskey on his breath only makes Merlin more aroused. He presses into Arthur with a grind and a moan.

“Get a room, assholes,” someone yells, laughing.

“We’re getting there!” Merlin yells back, temporarily distracted from Arthur’s mouth.

“Happy fucking!” some other voice exclaims, moving away, and people on the street start laughing and cheering.

Arthur grabs Merlin’s face and goes after his mouth again, while Merlin waves his middle finger over their heads in salutation to the crowd, which only solicits more laughs and a few disapproving boos. “Rude!”

“Come on.” Arthur tugs on Merlin’s hand when they break apart again, and pulls him off the main path.

The street they’re walking on now is quieter and much less illuminated. Arthur’s marching determinedly, still holding Merlin’s hand, leading him: ahead, away, from what feels like everything and everyone. Merlin doesn’t care, the thought that he’s going somewhere unknown with ultimately a stranger barely crossing his mind. Maybe it’s the whiskey making him brave and reckless, or maybe he just refuses to be lonely tonight. He likes that Arthur doesn’t show any impatience -- the opposite, actually. And he loves the subdued, yet very much there, swell of desire thrumming between them. Merlin pulls from the bottle again, swallowing with a hiss and a wince. Arthur brushes his shoulder against Merlin’s with a smile.

They end up in some residential area with mostly one-story, ranch-style houses, only a few windows still lit up here and there. The air turns chilly -- a normal occurrence for a city built in the middle of a desert, where the days are hot and the nights are nippy.

Merlin slows down, taking stock of the surroundings out of habit and noting a house, taller than the rest, behind a picket fence with windows dark except for one on the first level. He wishes he could walk closer and take a peek inside, and if it weren’t for his good knowledge of the Second Amendment to the local constitution, he’d probably do it. As is, he stops by the gate and places his hand on it.   

Arthur sways a little, standing next to him, but his gaze snaps to Merlin with a sharpness that surprises Merlin. “Okay?” he asks.

Merlin's tired and a bit nauseous -- it’s been such a long day for him -- but he nods anyway. Turning to face the house again, he sighs, his eyes finding the lit window once more.

“Sometimes,” he says slowly, slurring a little, “when I travel, I take a bus or a trolley, just pick a random route, and go wherever it takes me.” He glances back at Arthur, who seems to be listening to him intently. “I prefer those away from the main streets. No glamour, no bustle.”

Arthur hums and finds Merlin's fingers, squeezing them in encouragement to go on. Merlin squeezes back.

“My favourite thing is to look at the houses. They have their own personalities, just like people. You know, some are elegant, well-maintained. Some old with charm. Some just plain ugly,” he says by way of explaining. “But then the ugly one can have this lush, gorgeous garden in front and it changes things, you know?”

Arthur raises one shoulder in agreement, smiles at Merlin fondly.

“I always wonder about the people living there,” Merlin says, looking straight ahead. “Who are they? What’s their life like? How did they end up in that run-down Victorian with a crumbling roof? What are they busy with now? Are they sleeping? Cooking? Fighting? Making love? Are they happy, tired, depressed?” Merlin's rambling. “And sometimes...” He finally pauses and shivers at the sudden chill breathing up his spine. “Sometimes I think I know. I can sense the vibe inside.”

Arthur glances at him from the corner of his slightly narrowed eye for one serious moment -- fleeting, but long enough for Merlin to tense up with fear that he went too far with his night-time confessions -- but then Arthur hip-checks him with a soft chuckle. “What, like a psychic?”

Merlin frowns. Then shrugs. “Something like that. I can tell, I mean-- feel whatever their mood is, behind those curtains...”

Arthur mutters something Merlin doesn't catch.

“What’s that?”

Arthur tuts. “Nothing, just… I think I understand.”

“That ever happen to you?” Merlin asks, wonder in his voice.

Arthur thinks for a moment. “No. I never seem to have the time for things like that.”

Merlin huffs. “You mean wandering around and guessing the moods of strangers?”

“Just wandering. Period.”

“Pointless,” Merlin agrees with a pang in his heart, the nature of which he can’t explain.

“No,” Arthur says quietly and pulls Merlin into his arms. “I think I like that about you. You see things others don’t. You’re a bit magic like that, aren't you?”

 _You have no idea,_ Merlin wants to say. For a moment he panics, thinking that maybe it’s not him, Merlin, that brings this wistful, soft expression to Arthur’s face. What if it’s his magic making Arthur feel something Merlin wants? Merlin searches Arthur’s face, studies his eyes, dark-blue and earnest. He doesn’t feel like it is, though. It can’t be, if they both feel it. Like he’s just met his other half. It sounds pathetic, even inside his head. Although it’s quite possible that it can be entirely blamed on the amount of whiskey he’s consumed at this point.

Arthur noses his cheek. “Penny for a thought.”

Merlin shakes off his drunken stupor and elbows Arthur. “I’m not that cheap.”

Arthur eyes the expensive bottle in his grip and mutters, “I’ll say.”

“Oi,” Merlin protests, twisting around. “I’m worth it.”

Arthur smirks. “Yet to be seen.”

“What?” Merlin laughs, shoving Arthur in the chest. “I have to put out just because you got me one drink?”

“One drink?” Arthur exclaims, pointing at the bottle. “This is one drink?”

Merlin nods. “Technically. How many glasses do you see?”

“I should’ve known,” Arthur grumbles, hiding a smile, but Merlin sees it, the shadow of it right there in the corner of his mouth.

“Known what?” he asks.

“That you’d be a terrible date.”

They start walking again, briskly this time. Arthur’s shorts and Merlin’s light shirt are not suitable for the rapidly cooling temperature.

“Who said anything about a date?” Merlin teases.

“Then what are you?”

Merlin isn’t sure how to answer that. They are back to a more lively area with brighter lights, and there’s something like a pub at the corner, muffled sounds of music coming from inside.

It’s not a pub, as it turns out -- the sign flickering above the entrance door tells them that the “Chapelle J’Adore” is open 24/7 with the choice of Elvis and Sir Elton John offering their expert services to couples in need.

Merlin stops and wiggles his brows. "Are we a couple in need?" And laughs at Arthur’s gaping expression.

"Those places exist?"

"Sure. Marty McFly married in one of those," Merlin says, trying to keep his face straight.

"Marty McFly isn't real," Arthur points out reasonably.

"Britney Spears is," Merlin argues.

"Point," Arthur agrees and goes very quiet for a long moment, biting his lip, then says, very serious, "I bet we can do better than Britney."

Merlin laughs. "No one can do better than Britney. The bird's in the book of records for the shortest marriage of all drunks and stoners who ever tied the knot."

"True." Arthur's nodding, but the challenging glint in his eyes doesn't go away. "But we could make a new record," he says.

"What?" Merlin snorts. "That marriage lasted like 55 seconds. You can't beat that."

"We can," Arthur says stubbornly. "What if we have the _longest_ marriage ever? Like make it waaaay into the future. We can become legends."

Merlin scoffs and starts walking again. "Come off it."

"Hey, McFly?" Arthur calls, and when Merlin looks at him, wags his arms up and down at his sides, like a bird flapping its wings, and says in a loud falsetto, "Bwok."

Merlin balks at Arthur's enthusiastic movie impression. “What are you--”

Arthur flaps his arms, leaning towards Merlin, and says it again, with feeling. "Bwooook.” And again, “Bwok. Bwooook."

Merlin huffs, pushing him hard in the shoulder. “Fuck off, Arthur.”

Arthur staggers on his feet but doesn’t look fazed, his smile bright. “Ha!” Raising his finger, he squints and points it slowly at Merlin, challenge in his voice. " _Chicken_ ," he says, a word half-garbled but dramatic.

Merlin turns to Arthur, squaring his shoulders. "Nobody," he says with a dead-serious expression, advancing on Arthur. " _Nobody._ Calls me. Chicken."

"Prove it, Mer--"

Merlin shuts him up with a kiss, handsy and filthy. He palms Arthur's cock through his shorts, making Arthur moan and bite on Merlin’s lip. He stops abruptly.

"Come on, then." He kicks Arthur’s foot, nodding at the chapel. "Let’s bugger every record. And you’ve yet to bugger me."

Arthur grabs Merlin’s hand and walks into the door first.

  

They aren’t even that drunk, and the bet is so ridiculous they can easily walk away, but neither of them suggests it, and so they end up escorted by a sleepy old lady to a dimly lit sitting area, elbowing each other's ribs and fighting for the last of the whiskey while they’re waiting. Neither of them is sure for what.

Merlin plays dirty. As soon as Arthur takes the final gulp and turns the empty bottle upside down in victory, Merlin stuns him by straddling his hips over the chair and grabbing his face. He invades Arthur’s mouth like it’s a conquest. Makes a mess of it, licking Arthur’s lips followed by a graze of teeth and a hard suck -- so there are no illusions about his real intent -- and plunges inside, chasing the remnants of alcohol on Arthur's tongue, not at all gentle about it. The noises he’s making are obscene, like Arthur’s the best thing Merlin’s ever tasted, and he doesn't relent until Arthur exhales with a defeated groan and sags into him. When Merlin’s done with Arthur and pushes off him with a smirk, Arthur, looking thoroughly debauched and glassy-eyed, declares Merlin a pervert and the most conniving fiance ever.

Merlin tries not to boggle at the given title (or admit how much he loves the sound of it, because that's just nonsense). Except Arthur immediately has this expression that mirrors Merlin’s feeling of being right terrified of what’s happening but in a way that excites him too, and he has not the foggiest idea about how to deal with all the conflicting feelings knocking around in his chest. Merlin probably looks the same to Arthur. Too scared to acknowledge his newly appointed status directly, Merlin argues that they aren't even properly engaged, and to that, Arthur has a perfect solution -- he points to the floor in front of him and suggests that Merlin get on his knees and do the proper bit if he’s so worried about formalities.

"Cock. Mouth. Engage," Arthur proposes like he doesn't care who may walk in on them and catch them in the act.

Merlin’s brain must be somewhere far down south, since he actually considers the invitation like the horny, besotted fuck he apparently is. Arthur, with his dark, bruised mouth, flushed cheeks, golden skin and rumpled hair -- not to mention the impressive bulge in his shorts he’s rubbing lewdly with his hand and in earnest just to drive Merlin further mad -- is hard to resist. It’s only because Merlin doesn’t want to be arrested for indecency on his wedding day and end up in jail in a foreign country that he doesn’t give in.

But that doesn't mean he shouldn’t enjoy the dirty talk.

He rubs two fingers over the knuckles of Arthur’s cupped hand on the bulge, giving him a devious smile, and says, “Oh, I don’t know, baby. You sure you don’t want me to put a ring on it first? You said you wanted this to last.”

Arthur blinks and then throws his head back, laughing. “God, Merlin, how are you even real?”

Merlin isn’t sure how any of what’s happening tonight is real, but that’s a question for another day.

Someone clears their throat loudly behind them.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

Both Arthur and Merlin scramble to their feet, Arthur grabbing Merlin’s hand. The man who’s greeting them is in his fifties, tall, on the heavy side, and in oversized shades. His black hair is slicked back in an exaggerated and unmistakable fifties style. Looking at his white shiny one-piece costume adorned with large rhinestones and a golden cape flowing behind his back, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’ll be officiating their blessed union tonight.

“I guess Sir Elton was unavailable,” Arthur suggests to Merlin through the corner of his mouth.

Merlin makes a stony face, trying not to laugh, his right foot slipping. "Whoops," he murmurs sheepishly.

Arthur holds him straighter and winks, touching his finger to his mouth. "Sh-sh-sh." Then turns unsteadily to Elvis and clears his throat. “Hello… er… sir. How are you? Nice… uh...” He awkwardly waves up and down at the man’s outfit. 

“Why, thank you,” the man drawls with an emphatic press of his hand to his chest, already playing the part. “Thank you very much.”

On cue, an old record comes on, a soft beat filling the room, and Elvis’s rich voice starts crooning that “Fools rush in where wise men never go”.

“Oh god,” Merlin breathes.

“How may I be of service?” the man asks.

“Uh,” Arthur says again. “We’re here to… you know…” He looks at Merlin with a plea for help.

“We’d like to tie the knot,” Merlin explains, making an effort to sound clear and smooth, and grips Arthur’s hand. They’re in a so-called chapel of love, for god's sake, greeted by someone dutifully impersonating Elvis Presley, and Arthur’s called Merlin his fiance. For all intents and purposes, they’re at the point of no return.

“As in…” The man’s heavily tinted black brows crawl up. “As in, get married?”

Merlin and Arthur glance at each other, shrugging, and nod.

The King of Rock and Roll appears a little lost, glancing around as if not comprehending. “You mean, you want me to marry _you_?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, slightly raising his voice. “Isn’t it what you do here? Marry people?”

“Yes, but…”

If Merlin wasn’t pissed off his arse, and if Arthur didn’t look so delightfully eager and adorably attractive in his determination, he’d probably think twice about this. Alas,the stars must have aligned in such a way for a reason, Merlin decides, and he realises he wants this too much to question the universe. All he needs right now is for the King to quit being daft and get to business already.

“Is there a problem?” Arthur studies the officiant's hesitating stance. “We don’t mind doubling the pay for your trouble,” he offers, having come to some conclusion.

That tactic seems to do the trick. “Ah, who the hell cares. Love is love, right?” the man declares and winks, and then in true Elvis fashion, he finally gets on with the "a little less conversation, a little more action" programme.

He leads them to the desk, where he opens a large registry book and hands a pen to each. "First you sign here."

Merlin tries to read, but the words are all blurry. Ah, what the hell. He signs. Something. Arthur squints and does the same.

“By the way, we accept all forms of payments,” Elvis cheerfully informs them and pauses, looking at them.

Merlin laughs. “Right. How much does it even cost?”

“I have it covered,” Arthur says quickly.

“No, no, this time I insist. We’re getting married, so from now on it’s all fifty-fifty.”

Arthur looks at him, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Fine. By the way, I don’t know your surname.”

This is the first time since Merlin left the hotel after his mission that he remembers about his job and the consequences that come with blowing his cover.

He smiles sweetly at Arthur and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “Why bother? I’m taking yours anyway.”

And that’s how Merlin becomes Mr Arthur Smith.

     

 

[TO BE CONTINUED]

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of the series. More to come shortly as the story is mostly written.


End file.
